
Class. 
Book_ 






THE SKETCH-BOOK 

OP 

GEOFFEEY CRAYOE". GENT. 



STBATFORD EBITIOH 



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STRATFORD EDITION 



THE 



SKETCH-BOOK 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent 



"I hare no wife nor chikiren, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of otiicr 
men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts, wliich, methinks, are 
diversely presented unto me, as from a common tlieatre or scene,"— Bueton. 




THE AUTHOR' 8 REVISED EDITION 



NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

27 AND 29 West 23d Street 

1884 



r3 XQGG 



COPTRIOHT 

1880 
Bt G. p. PUTNAM'S SONS 



38^797 

19^ 







PAGE 

Tee Author's Account of Himself 15 

The Voyage 30 

EoscoE 29 

The W ife , 39 

Rip Van Winkle 50 

English Writers on America 77 

Rural Life in England 90 

The Broken Heart 101 

The Art of Book-makln'g 109 

A Royal Poet 119 

The Country Church 140 

The Widow and her Son 148 

A Sunday in London 159 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 1G2 

The Mutability of Literature 179 

Rural Funerals 195 

The Inn Kitchen 213 

The Spectre Bridegroom 21o 

Westminster Abbey 238 

3 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGH 

Christmas 254 

The Stage Coach 2()3 

Christmas Eve 272 

Christmas Day 289 

The Christmas Dinner 309 

London Antiques 330 

Little Britain 339 

Stratford-on-Avon 3G1 

Traits of Indian Character 389 

Philip of Pokanoket 40G 

John Bull 431 

The Pride of the Village 488 

The Angler , 461 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 474 

L'Envoy , 522 

Appendix 527 



List of iLLUsTRATioivrs. 



/ PACK. 

Children in the CiiURCn-YARD Front. 

■J The Plagiakist 118 

\i The Boar's Head 313 

*J Capture op Canonchet 424 



PEEFACE TO THE EeVISED EDITION. 



HE following papers, •with two exceptions, were 
written in England, and formed Init part of an 
intended series, for wliicli I had made notes 
and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, liow- 
ever, circumstances compelled me to send them piece- 
meal to the United States, where they were published 
from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not 
my intention to publish them in England, being con- 
scious that much of their contents would be interesting 
only to American readers, and in truth, being deterred 
by the severity with which American productions had 
been treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had ap- 
peared in this occasional manner, they began to find 
their way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with 
many kind encomiums, in the London Literary Gazette. 
It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to 
publish them in a collective form. I determined, there- 

5 



Q PREFACE. 

fore, to bring them forward myself, that tliey might at 
least have the benefit of my superintendence and revi- 
sion. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I 
had received from the United States, to Mr. John Mur- 
ray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already 
received friendly attentions, and left them with him for 
examination, informing him that should he be inclined to 
bring them before the public, I had materials enough on 
hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed 
without any communication from Mr. Murray, I addressed 
a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a 
tacit rejection of my work, and begged that tlie numbers 
I had left with him might be returned to me. The fol- 
lowing was his reply : 

My dear Sir, — 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind inten- 
tions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for 
your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with work-peo- 
ple at this time, and I have only an oflBce to transact business in ; and 
yesterday I was wholly occupied, or 1 should have done myself the pleas- 
ure of seeing j'ou. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present 
work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it which 
would enable me to rjake those satisfactory accounts between us, witliout 
which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will do all I can to 
promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future 
plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 



PREFACE. 7 

This was dislieartening, and might have deterred me 
from any further prosecution of the matter, had the 
question of republication in Great Britain rested entirely 
with me ; but I apprehended the appearance of a spu- 
rious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable 
as publisher, having been treated by him with much hos- 
pitality during a visit to Edinburgh; but first I deter- 
mined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, 
being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had 
experienced from him at Abbotsford a few years pre- 
viously, and by the favorable opinion he had expressed 
to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him 
the printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a parcel by 
coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that 
since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his hospital- 
ity, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made 
the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me ; I 
begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I 
had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they would bear 
European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Con- 
stable would be inclined to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to 
Scott's address in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail 
to his residence in the country. By the very first post I 
received a reply, before he had seen my work. 

"I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter 
reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and 
will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to 



8 PREFACE. 

forward your vie-ws — I assure you nothing will give me 
more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had 
struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that 
practical and efl&cient good will which belonged to his 
nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was 
about to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most 
respectable talents, and amply furnished with all the 
necessary information. The appointment of the editor, 
for which ample funds were provided, would be five hun- 
dred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable pros- 
pect of further advantages. This situation, being ap- 
parently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The 
work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a 
political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that 
the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. "Yet 
I risk the question," added he, "because I know no man 
so well qualified for this important task, and perhaps be- 
cause it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my 
proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter 
secret, and there is no harm done. 'And for my love I 
pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it 
could be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possi- 
ble, addressing Castle-street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I 
am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch- 
Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire 



PREFACE. 9 

to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties tliere 
always are in managing sucli a matter, especially at the 
outset ; but we will obviate them as mucli as we possibly 
can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my re- 
ply, which underwent some modifications in the copy 
sent: 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your 
letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwar- 
rantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a genial 
sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into 
heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both sur- 
prises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opin- 
ion of my talents than I have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself pecu- 
liarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely 
by my political opinions, but by the very constitution 
and habits of my mind. " My whole course of life," I 
observed, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any 
periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of 
body or mind. I have no command of my talents, such 
as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind 
as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and train- 
ing may bring me more into rule ; but at present I am as 
useless for regular service as one of my own country 
Indians or a Don Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have 
begun ; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall 



10 PREFACE. 

occasionally shift my residence and write whatever is 
suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my 
imagination; and hope to write better and more copi- 
ously by and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very 
good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Con- 
stable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I 
have on hand, he will encourage me to further enter- 
prise ; and it will be something like trading with a gipsy 
for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at one time have 
nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another 
time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at 
my declining what might have proved a troublesome 
duty. He then recurred to the original subject of our 
correspondence ; entered into a detail of the various 
terms upon which arrangements were made between au- 
thors and booksellers, that I might take my choice ; ex- 
pressing the most encouraging confidence of the success 
of my work, and of previous works which I had produced 
in America. "I did no more," added he, "than open the 
trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if you will take 
the trouble to write to him, you will find him disposed to 
treat your overtures with every degree of attention. Or, 
if you think it of consequence in the first place to see me, 
I shall be in London in the course of a month, and what- 
ever my experience can command is most heartily at your 



PREFACE. 11 

command. But I can add little to Tvliat I have said 
above, except my earnest recommendation to Constable 
to enter into the negotiation." * 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, how- 
ever, I had determined to look to no leading bookseller 
for a launch, but to throw mj work before the public 
at my own risk, and let it sink or swim according to its 
merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received 
a reply : 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come 
forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to 
publish on one's own account ; for the booksellers set 
their face against the circulation of such works as do not 
pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost 
the art of altogether damming up the road in such cases 
between the author and the public, which they were once 
able to do as eflfectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's 

* I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's 
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our corre- 
spondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I 
had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her 
father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; showing the 
" nigromancy " of the American press, by which a quart of wine is con- 
jured into a pint bottle. Scott observes : "In my hurry, 1 have not 
thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention which furnished her 
with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, 
since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than 
she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I had taken special care they 
should never see any of those things during their earlier years. I think I 
told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like a may- 
pole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe — in other 
words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." 



12 PREFACE. 

Holy War closed up tlie windows of my Lord Under- 
standing's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you 
have only to be known to the British public to be ad- 
mired by them, and I would not say so unless I really 
was of that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will find 
some notice of your works in the last number : the 
author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced 
you in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a 
young man of very considerable talent, and who will soon 
be intimately connected with my family. My faithful 
friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illus- 
trated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into 
consideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee 
will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in 



London about the middle of the month, and promise my- 
self great pleasure in once again shaking you by the 
hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press 
in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a book- 
seller unknown to fame, and without any of the usual 
arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still 
some attention had been called to it by the extracts which 



PREFACE. 'X3 

had previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by 
the kind word spoken by the editor of that periodical, 
and it was getting into fair circulation, when my worthy 
bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the 
sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to 
him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more 
propitious than Hercules, he pvit his OAvn shoulder to the 
wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray 
was quickly induced to undertake the future publication 
of the work which he had previously declined. A further 
edition of the first volume was struck off and the second 
volume was jDut to press, and from that time Murray be- 
came my publisher, conducting himself in all his deal- 
ings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had ob- 
tained for him the well-merited appellation of the Princa 
of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Wal- 
ter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I 
feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my 
debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted 
man in acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who 
of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid 
or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, gen- 
erous, and effectual assistance 1 

W. L 



The Sketgh-Book. 




THE AUTHOES ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of hcf 
Bhel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole 
to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short 
time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his 
mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 

Lylt's Euphues. 

WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and 
observing strange characters and manners. 
Even when a mere child I began my travels, 
and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and 
unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm 
of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As 
I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my obser- 
vations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles 
about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar 
with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew 
every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- 
mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring vil- 
lages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by 

15 



16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

noting tlieir habits and customs, and conversing with 
their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long 
summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, 
whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra 
incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I 
inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exer- 
cises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about 
the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting 
ships, bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes 
would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself 
in imagination to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought 
this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only 
served to make it more decided. I visited various parts 
of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of 
fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek else- 
where its gratification, for on no country have the charms 
of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty 
lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with 
their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild 
fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their 
solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous 
verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence 
to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the 



THE ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 17 

magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, 
never need an American look beyond liis own country 
for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenerj'. 

But Europe lield forth the charms of storied and poeti- 
cal association. There were to be seen the masterpieces 
cf art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the 
quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My na- 
tive country was full of youthful promise : Europe was 
rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering 
stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the 
scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, 
in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined 
castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in 
short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and 
lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the 
great men of the earth. Yv^e have, it is true, our great 
men in America : not a city but has an ample share of 
them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been 
almost withered by the shade into which they cast me ; 
for there is nothing; so baleful to a small man as the 
sliade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. 
But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I 
had read in the works of various philosophers, that all 
animals degenerated in America, and man among the 
number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must there- 
fore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak 
3 



18 TUE SKETCH-BOOK 

of the Alps to a liigliland of the Hudson ; and in this idea 
I was confirmed, by observing the comjiarative impor- 
tance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers 
among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in 
their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am 
degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my rov- 
ing passion, gratified. I have wandered through different 
countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of 
life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye 
of a philosopher ; but rather with the sauntering gaze 
v/ith which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from 
the window of one j)i"iiit-shop to another ; caught some- 
times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the 
distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness 
of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to 
travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port-folios 
filled with sketches, I am disj)osed to get up a few for 
the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look 
over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how 
my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects 
studied by every regular traveller who would make a 
book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an 
unlucky landscape painter, who had travelled on the con- 
tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, 
had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His 



THE ACCOUNT OF THE AUTUOB. 19 

sketcli-book was accordingly crowded witli cottages, and 
landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to 
paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, 
or the bay of Naples ; and had not a single glacier or 
volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will descrle you 

Amidst the main, 

I will come and try you, 

What you are protecting, 

And projecting, ' 

What's your end and aim. 

One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 

Another -stays to keep his country from invading, 

A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 

Halloo ! my faucie, whither wilt thou go ? 

Old Poem. 

O an American visiting Europe, tlie long voyage 
lie has to make is an excellent preparative. 
The temporary absence of worldly scenes and 
employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted 
to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space 
of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank 
page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one 
country blend almost imperceptibly with those of an- 
other. From the moment you lose sight of the land you 
have left all is vacancy until you step on the oj)posite 
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and nov- 
elties of another world. 

20 



THE VOYAGE. 21 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and 
a connected succession of persons and incidents, tliat 
carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence 
and separation. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening 
chain," at each remove of our pilgriraage ; but the chain 
is unbroken : we can trace it back link by link ; and we 
feel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide 
sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of 
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, 
and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a 
gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our 
homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- 
taint}", rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in 
the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of 
the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, 
before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all most dear to me in 
life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes 
might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! 
Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or 
when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot 
to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for meditation; but tlien tliey are the wonders of the 
deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind 
from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- 
ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and 
muse for hours together on- the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just 
peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, 
and peojile them with a creation of my own ; — to watch 
the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, 
as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, 
on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. 
Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; 
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the 
surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, 
through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure 
up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless 
valleys ; of the shapeless monsters 'that lurk among the 
very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phan- 
tasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle' speculation. 
How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to 
rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious 
monument of human invention ; which has in a manner 
triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends 



TEE VOYAGE. 23 

of the world into communion ; has established an inter- 
change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of 
the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the 
light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; 
and has thus bound together those scattered portions of 
the human race, between which nature seemed to have 
thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, 
by w^hich some of the crew had fastened themselves to 
this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the wa-ves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could 
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 
for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened 
about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But 
where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long 
been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of 
the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed 
over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. 
What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! 
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored 
over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of 
this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened 



24 THE 8KETCU-B00K. 

into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into de- 
spair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love 
to clierish. All that may ever be known, is, that she 
sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as nsual, gave rise to many 
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 
of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes 
break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we 
sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made 
the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- 
wreck and disaster. I vvas particularly struck with a 
short one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy 
fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night 
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 
at the m^st-head, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the 
water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail 
ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon 
her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her 
broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY. 25 

neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- 
ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore 
her down below the waves ; we passed over her and were 
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sink- 
ing beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- 
naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just started 
from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. 
I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The 
blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther 
hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some 
time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could 
guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We 
fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the 
halloo of any survivors : but all was silent — we never 
saw or heard anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was 
a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken 
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black col- 
Time of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes 
of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, 
and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The 
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and 
were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As 
I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roar- 



26 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing caverns, it seemed miraculous that slie regained her 
balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would 
dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath 
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous 
movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- 
ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the 
masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the 
ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I 
heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and 
roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging 
round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere 
starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him 
entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voy- 
age, for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it 
is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
"land!" was given from the mast-head. None but those 



THE ARRIVAL. 27 

who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's 
bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is 
a volume of associations with the very name. It is the 
land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his 
childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have 
pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ire- 
land, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh moun- 
tains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense 
interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the 
shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on 
neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey 
overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church 
rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were 
characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged 
with people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expect- 
ants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the mer- 
chant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by 
his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were 
thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, 
and walking to and fro, a small space having been ac- 
corded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary 



28 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

importance. Tliere were repeated clieerings and saluta- 
tions interchanged between the shore and the ship, as 
friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly 
noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interest- 
ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the 
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the 
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seem- 
ed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been 
ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every 
one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates 
had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but 
of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to 
Lis hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might 
see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck 
as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the 
shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghast- 
ly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not 
recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye 
darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume 
of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, 
and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations 
of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had 
no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped 
upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a 
stranger in the land. 



EOSCOE. 



-In the service of mankind to be 



A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine forever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

NE of tlie first places to wliicli a stranger is 
taken in Liyerpool is the Atliengeum. It is es- 
tablished on a liberal and judicious plan ; it 
contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and 
is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at 
"what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with 
grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my 
attention was attracted to a person just entering the 
room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that 
.might once have been commanding, but it was a little 
bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Ko- 
man style of countenance ; a head that would have 
pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on 
his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy 

29 



30 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

there, yet liis eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic 
soul. There was something in his whole appearance that 
indicated a being of a different order from the bustling 
race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 
B-oscoe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of ven- 
eration. This, then, was an author of celebrity ; this was 
one of those men, whose voices have gone forth to the 
ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed 
even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are 
in our country, to know European writers only by their 
works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, en- 
grossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with 
the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. 
They pass before our imaginations like superior beings, 
radiant with the emanations of their genius, and sur- 
rounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked 
my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances 
and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Ros- 
coe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is inter- 
esting to notice how some minds seem almost to create 
themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and 
working their solitary but irresistible way through a 
thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disap- 
pointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear 
legitimate dulness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor 



MB. E08C0E. 31 

and luxuriance of her cliance productions. She scatters 
the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may- 
perish among the stony places of the world, and some 
be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adver- 
sity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the 
clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of 
vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Eoscoe. Born in a 
place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary tal- 
ent ; in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, 
family connections, or patronage; self-prompted, self-sus- 
tained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every 
obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, having be- 
come one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the 
whole force of his talents and influence to advance and 
embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced 
me particularly to point him out to my countrymen. 
Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among 
the many distinguished authors of this intellectual na- 
tion. They, however, in general, live but for their own 
fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history pre- 
sents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating 
one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they 
are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace 
of btisy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive en- 
joyment. 

Mr. Boscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the 
accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in 
no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone 
forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has 
planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of 
the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure foun- 
tains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the 
dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams 
of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on 
which mankind may meditate and grow better. It ex- 
hibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, 
example of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, 
yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every 
man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised 
by many, or this world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention 
of the citizens of our young and busy country, where lit- 
erature and the elegant arts must grow up side by side 
with the coarser plants of daily necessity; and must de- 
pend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of 
time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled pat- 
ronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public- 
spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely 



R08C0E. 33 

it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like 
his own Lorenzo De' Medici, on wliom he seems to have 
fixed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has in- 
terwoven the history of his life with the history of his 
native town, and has made the foundations of its fame 
the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liv- 
erpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is 
elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing 
merely in the channels of traffick ; he has diverted from 
it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of literature. 
By his own example and constant exertions he has ef- 
fected that union of commerce and the intellectual pur- 
suits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest 
writings : * and has practically proved how beautifully 
they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each 
other. The noble" institutions for literary and scientific 
purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are 
giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly 
been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, 
by Mr. Roscoe ; and v/hen we consider the rapidly in- 
creasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which 
promises to vie in commercial importance with the me- 
tropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambi- 
tion of mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has 
effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. 
In America, we know Mr. Koscoe only as the author—^ 



* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
3 



34 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in Liverpool lie is spoken of as tlie banker ; and I was 
told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could 
not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered 
him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for 
the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the 
frowns of adversity ; but a man like Hoscoe is not to be 
overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive 
him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the supe- 
rior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of men 
are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in 
search of less worthy associates. He is independent of 
the world around him. He lives with antiquity and pos- 
terity ; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studi- 
ous retirement ; and with posterity, in the generous aspir- 
ings after future renown. The soiitiide of such a mind is 
its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those 
elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of 
noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the 
wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Eoscoe. I 
was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of 
Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some 
ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we 
came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Gre- 
cian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an 
air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine 
lawn sloj3ed away from it, studded with clumps of trees, 



ROSCOE. 35 

so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a va- 
riety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a 
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadow-land ; while the Welsh mountains, blended with 
clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Koscoe's favorite residence during the days 
of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospi- 
tality and literary retirement. The house was now silent 
and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which 
looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The 
windows were closed — the library was gone. Two or 
three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, 
whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It 
was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once 
welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it 
dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over 
the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Koscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histo- 
ries. It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, 
and was dispersed about the country. The good people 
of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part 
of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did 
such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might 
imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption in 
the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory 
of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 



36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

which they could not wield. We might picture to our- 
selves some knot of speculators, debating with calculat- 
ing brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin 
of an obsolete author ; of the air of intense, but baffled 
sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted 
to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Koscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the 
studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to 
have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have 
been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice 
of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these 
silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and in- 
nocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When 
all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only re- 
tain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the 
converse of intimates languishes into va23id civility and 
commonplace, these only continue the unaltered counte- 
nance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friend- 
ship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Eoscoe and themselves, his library would never have 
been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be 
given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to 
combat with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but 
it certainly appears to me such an ojjportnnity as seldom 
occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under mis- 



ROSCOE. 37 

fortunes, by one of tlie most delicate, but most expres- 
sive tokens of public sympatliy. It is difficult, however, 
to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before 
our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with 
other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, we 
become too familiar with the common materials which 
form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of 
Mr. Boscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man 
of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged 
like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, 
perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wis- 
dom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity 
of character, which gives the nameless grace to real ex- 
cellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some 
coarse "'minds, who do not know that true worth is always 
void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, 
who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of 
Boscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it inquires 
where Boscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark 
of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, 
towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Boscoe to his 
books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preced- 
ing article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling 
and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, 
that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful tran- 
script from the writer's heart. 



38 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile. 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and ligliten every toil, 

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
And liappier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
And all your sacred fellowship restore: 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 




THE AVIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal 'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
"What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . « 
The violet bed's not sweeter. 

MiDDLETON. 

HAVE often had occasion to remark the forti- 
tude with which women sustain the most over- 
whelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters 
which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him 
in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the 
softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to 
their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and 
tender female, who had been all weakness and depen- 
dence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while tread- 
ing the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in 
mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus- 
band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 

about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, 

39 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wlien the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling 
round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- 
tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, 
that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of 
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself 
into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- 
ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around 
him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest af- 
fection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with 
enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you 
are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; 
if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, in- 
deed, I have observed that a married man falling into 
misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the 
world than a single one ; jjartly because he is more stim- 
ulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; 
but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved 
by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive 
by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humil- 
iation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of 
which he is the monarch. "Whereas a single man is apt 
to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely 
and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some 
deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story. 



TEE LESLIES. 41 

of wLicli I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Les- 
lie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who 
had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. 
She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was 
ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging 
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those 
delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery 
about the sex. — "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy 
tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an 
harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and some- 
what serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have 
often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze 
upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers 
made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, 
her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she 
sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, 
her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly 
person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up 
to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride 
and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely 
burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set 
forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited mar- 
riage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have 
embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had 
not been married many months, when, by a succession of 
sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept 
his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard 
countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a pro- 
tracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable 
was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence 
of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm 
her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick 
eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She 
marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to 
be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerful- 
ness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she 
only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he 
saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought 
that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, 
thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek— 
the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of 
those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy 
heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be 
■weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the 
world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his 
whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When 
I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know 
all this ? " — At the question he burst into an agony of 
tears. " For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any 
pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought cf 
her that drives me almost to madness ! " 



THE LESLIES. 43 

" And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner 
or later ; you cannot keep it long from lier, and the intel- 
ligence may break upon her in a more startling manner, 
than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those 
we love soften the hardest tidings. Besides, you are de- 
priving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and 
not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that 
can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of 
thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some- 
thing is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love 
will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and out- 
raged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- 
cealed from it." 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a 
beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — 
all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi- 
gence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged 
her down from the sphere in which she might have con- 
tinued to move in constant brightness — the light of every 
eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear 
poverty ? she has been brought up in all the refinements 
of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been 
the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will 
break her heart ! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it ha^e its flow ; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm 



44 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. . 

had subsided, and lie had relapsed into moody silence, I 
resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- 
fully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is neces- 
sary she should know it, that you may take the steps 
proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You 

must change your style of living nay," observing a 

pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that af- 
flict you. I am sure you have never placed your hap- 
piness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm 
friends, who will not think the worse of you for being 
less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require 
a palace to be happy with Mary " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, 
*' in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and 
the dust ! — I could — I could— God bless her ! — God bless 
her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and 
tenderness. 

" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can 
be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of 
pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent 
energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she 
will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. 
There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly 
fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosper- 
ity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 



TEE LESLIES. 45 

dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of 
his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel 
she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery 
trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the 
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had 
to deal with ; and following up the impression I had 
made, I finished by persuading him to go home and un- 
burden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little 'solicitude for the result. Who can calculate 
on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of 
pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark 
downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out 
before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which 
they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable 
life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to 
which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In sliort, I could 
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. 
He had made the disclosure. 

"And how did she bear it? " 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked 
if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, 
poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we 
must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the 
abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is 



46 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

allied to love. Slie feels as yet no privation; slie suf- 
fers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, 
its j)altry wants, its j)etty liumiliations — then will be the 
real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the 
severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you 
let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure 
may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and 
soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipa- 
tion, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much 
as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping 
up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have 
the courage to appear jDoor and you disarm poverty of its 
sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly 
prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his 
wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 
fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the even- 
ing. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken 
a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. 
He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. 
The new establishment required few articles, and those 
of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his 
late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. 
That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of 
herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for 



THE LESLIES. 47 

some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were 
those when he had leaned over that instrument, and list- 
ened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but 
smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting 
husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife 
had been all day superintending its arrangement. My 
feelings had become strongly interested in the progress 
of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I of- 
fered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

" And what of her ? " asked I : " has any thing hap- 
pened to her ? " 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be 
caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil 
almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habita- 
tion?" 

"Has she then repined at the change? " 

" Kepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and 
good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I 
have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and 
tenderness, and comfort! " 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I, "You call yourself 
poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

knew tlie boundless treasures of excellence you possess 
in that woman." 

" Oil ! but, my friend, if tliis first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this 
is her first day of real experience ; she has been intro- 
duced into a humble dwelling — she has been employed 
all day in arranging its miserable equipments — she has, 
for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employ- 
ment — she has, for the first time, looked round her on a 
home destitute of every thing elegant, — almost of every 
thing convenient ; and may now be sitting down, ex- 
hausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future 
poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that 
I could not gainsay, so Ave walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete 
air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It v/as 
humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral 
poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine 
had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few 
trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I ob- 
served several pots of flowers tastefully disjiosed about 
the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket 
gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 
shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard 
the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused 
and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of 



TEE LESLIES. 4,9 

the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her 
husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped 
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise 
on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out 
at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard 
— and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in 
a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were 
twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; 
her w^hole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never 
seen her look so lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are 
come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; 
and I've been gathering some of the most delicious 
strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we 
have such excellent cream — and everything is so sweet 
and still here — Oh ! " said she, putting her arm within 
his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be 
so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his 
bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her 
again and again — he could not speak, but the tears 
gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that 
though the world has since gone prosperously with him, 
and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has 
he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity, 



EIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WETTING OF DIEDEICH KNICKEEBOCKEB. 

By "Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is "Wodcnsday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will licep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

Cartwright. 

[The follomng Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrieh 
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in 
the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants 
fi-om its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not 
lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably 
scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and 
still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true 
history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch fam- 
ily, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading syca- 
more, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and 
studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province during 
the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. 
There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, 
and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief 
merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on 
its first appearance, but has since been completely established ; and it is 
now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable 
authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly .after the publication of his work, and 
now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to 
say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier la- 

50 



THE KAAT8EILLS. 51 

bors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though 
it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, 
and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest defer- 
ence and affection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in 
sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never in- 
tended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated 
by critics, it is still held dear by many folks, whose good opinion is 
well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone 
so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus 
given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped 
on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's. Farthing.] 



HOEVER has made a voyage up tlie Hudson 
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
are a dismembered branch of the great Appala- 
chian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, 
swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the 
surrounding country. Every -change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, pro- 
duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of 
these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
"wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
sky ; but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about 
their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, 
will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 



52 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wliose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green 
of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about 
the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of 
the houses of the original settlers standing within a few 
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, 
having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted 
with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
W' eather-beaten), there lived . many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple 
good-natured fellow of the name of Hip Van Winkle. He 
was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gal- 
lantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in- 
herited, however, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good- 
natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an 
obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter cir- 
cumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are 
most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who 
are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tem- 
pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 

fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain lec- 
ture is worth all tlie sermons in the world for teaching 
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 
tolerable blessing ; and if so, Eip Yan Winkle was thrice 
blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable 
sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never 
failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their 
evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van 
"Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout 
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their 
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites 
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about 
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hang- 
ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a 
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog 
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Eip's composition was an insupera- 
ble aversion to all kinds of profitable labor.- It could not 
be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he 
would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as 
a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even 
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. 
He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours 
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 



54 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pig- 
eons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all coun- 
try frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone- 
fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ 
him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs 
as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. 
In a word Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business 
but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping 
his farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country; every thing about it went wrong, and 
would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were con- 
tinually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, 
or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always 
made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate had 
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until 
there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian 
corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm 
in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
belonged to nobody. His son Eip, an urchin begotten in 
his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the 
old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping 
like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his 



BIP'S DOG. 55 

father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in 
bad weather. 

Eip Van "Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- 
tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world 
easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got 
with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on 
a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, ho 
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about 
his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring- 
ing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was 
sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip 
had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, 
but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh 
volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his 
forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Eip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
"Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon WoK with an evil eye, as the cause of 
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as 
couraoreous an animal as ever scoured the woods — ^but 



56 THE SKETCE-BOOK 

what courage can witlistaiid the ever-during and all-be- 
eetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf 
entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the 
ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at 
Dame Yan Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom- 
stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping pre- 
cipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Eip Yan Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mel- 
lows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool 
that grows keener with constant use. For a long while 
he used to console himself, when driven from home, by 
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos- 
ophers, and other idle personages of the village; which 
held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, desig- 
nated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the 
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long 
lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gos- 
sip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
it would have been wortii any statesman's money to have 
heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, 
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands 
from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would 
listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Yan 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, 
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in 
the dictionary; and hov/ sagely they would deliberate 



NICHOLAS YEBDER. 6', 

upon public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- 
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from 
morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the 
sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the 
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accu- 
rately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to 
speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly 
understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions 
When any thing that was read or related displeased him, 
he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to 
send forth short, frequent and angry puffs ; but when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, 
and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, 
taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in 
token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly 
break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call 
the members all to naught ; nor was that august person- 
age, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring 
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright 
with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Eip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 



58 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm 
and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll 
away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat 
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his 
wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow- 
sufiferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my 
lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand 
"by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his 
master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he 
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day. 
Hip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favor- 
ite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had 
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Pant- 
ing and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that 
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening be- 
tween the trees he could overlook all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance 
the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its si- 
lent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleep- 
ing on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the 
blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 59 

"witLi fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time Kip lay musing on this scene; evening was 
gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their 
long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would 
be dark long before he could reach the village, and he 
heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the 
terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, " Eip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow wing- 
ing its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought 
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to 
descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the 
still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
— at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving 
a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fear- 
fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague appre- 
hension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the 
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toil- 
ing up the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- 
thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to see 
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, 
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short 
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- 



60 '^SE SKETCH-BOOK. 

zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutcli fasliiou 
— a clotli jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair 
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated 
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the 
knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed 
full of liquor, and made signs for Bip to approach and 
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis- 
trustful of this new acquaintance, Bip complied with his 
usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one another, they 
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a 
mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and 
then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that 
seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, be- 
tween lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 
ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be 
the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers 
which often take place in mountain heights, he pro- 
ceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a 
hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impend- 
ing trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Kip and his companion had la- 
bored on in silence ; for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of 
liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 



TEE GAME OF NINE-PINS. 61 

On entering tlie amphitlieatre, ne-w objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in tlie centre was 
a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine- 
pins. Tliey were dressed in a quaint outlandisli fash- 
ion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- 
mous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large beard, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another 
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmount- 
ed by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red 
cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes 
and colors. There was one who seemed to be the 
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a 
weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, 
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, 
red stockings, and high - heeled shoes, with roses in 
them. The whole group reminded Kip of the figures 
in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie 
Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 
brought over from Holland at the time of the settle- 
ment. 

What seemed particularly odd to Eip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious si- 
lence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of 
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted 
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 



62 TEE SKETCE-BOOK. 

wliicli, whenever tliey were rolled, eclioed along the 
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Eip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with 
such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth^ 
lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within 
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now 
emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and 
made signs to him to wait upon the company. He 
obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor 
in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Eip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of 
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro- 
voked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon 
so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and 
he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his 
eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain 
breeze. " Surely," thought Eip, " I have not slept here 
all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the 



RIP' 8 AWAKING. 63 

mountain ravine — the -wild retreat among the rocks — the 
■woe-begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — "Oh! that 
flagon! that wicked flagon ! " thought Eip — " what excuse 
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ! " 

He looked round for his gvm, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of 
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to 
be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand 
his doo: and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself 
stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought 
Hip, " and if this frolic should lay me up v/ith a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 
glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonish- 
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap- 
ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up i(a 



64 THE SKETCH-BOOR. 

sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of 
birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped 
up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their 
coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- 
penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in 
a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 
then, j)oor Kip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered by the 
cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, se- 
cure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at 
the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the 
morning was passing away, and Bip felt famished for 
want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shoul- 
dered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of peo- 
ple, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised 
him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every 
one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a 
different fashion fi'om that to which he was accustomed. 



RIP'S RETURN. 65 

They all stared at liim witli equal marks of surprise, and 
whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this 
gesture induced Bip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, 
to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot 
long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, 
and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one 
of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which had 
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows 
— every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him ; 
he began to doubt whether both he and the world around 
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil- 
lage, which he had left but the day before. There stood 
the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at 
a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it 
had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — "That 
flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expect- 
ing every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van 
Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof 
5 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

fallen in, tlie windows shattered, and the doors off the 
hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skulking about it. Pvip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an 
unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Bip, 
" has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame 
Yan Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- 
lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called 
loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers 
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was 
silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats 
and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "the 
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the 
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn 
of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, 
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular 
assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and 
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had 
smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was sin- 
gularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for 



RIP'S RETURN. 67 

one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the Land in- 
stead of a sceptre, tlie Lead was decorated with a cocked 
hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. 
General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Eip recollected. The very character of the 
peoi:)le seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for 
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco- 
smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient 
newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking 
fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members 
of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy- 
six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish 
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Kip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired "on v/hich side he voted?" Eip stared ia 
vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 



68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

liis ear, "Wlietlier lie was Federal or Democrat?" Eip 
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked 
hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 
planting himself before Van Winkle, wdth one arm akim- 
bo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp 
hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded 
in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election 
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" — • 
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Kip, somewhat dismayed, "I 
am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
subject of the king, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "A 
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 
him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having as- 
sumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the 
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom ho 
was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he 
meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 

Bip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
jNicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Tedder! why, 



RIP'S BETUBN. 69 

he is dead and gone tliese eighteen years ! There was a 
wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell 
all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 
Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot 
of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 
again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? " 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- 
eral, and is now in congress." 

Eip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- 
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
which he could not understand : war — congress — Stony 
Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Eip 
Van Winkle?" 

" Oh, Kip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " Oh, 
to be sure ! that's Piip Van Winkle yonder, leaning 
against the tree." 

Kip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, 
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- 
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and 
Tvhether he was himself or another man. In the midst 



70 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

of his bewilderment, tlie man in the cocked hat demanded 
who he was, and what was his name ? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — 
that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself 
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm 
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I 
am!" 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their 
foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the 
gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at 
the very suggestion of which the self-important man in 
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this 
critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his 
looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you 
little fool ; the old man won't hurt you," The name of 
the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 



BIP'S RETURN. 71 

home witlioiit liim ; but whether he shot himself, or was 
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl." 

Eip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it 
with a faltering voice : 

"Where's your mother? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England 
peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I 
am your father ! " cried he — " Young Kip Van Winkle 
once — old Eip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know 
poor Eip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
" Sure enough ! it is Eip Van Winkle — it is himself ! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years ? " 

Eip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared 
when they heard it ; some Avere seen to wink at each 
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the self- 
important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm 
was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the 
corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which 



72 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

there "was a general shaking of the head throughout the 
assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up 
the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that 
name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the pro- 
vince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the vil- 
lage, and well versed in all the wonderful events and 
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Eip at 
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange 
"beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick 
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept 
a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of 
the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon 
the river, and the great city called by his name. That 
his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and 
that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the 
sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke iip, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Bip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had 
a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer 
for a husband, whom Kip recollected for one of the 



EIP'S QUIET OLD AGE. 73 

urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's 
son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning 
against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; 
but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any 
thing else but his business. 

Eip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred mak- 
ing friends among the rising generation, with whom h© 
soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived feo 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he 
took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, 
and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." It 
was some time before he could get into the regular track 
of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange 
events that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had 
thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of 
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was 
now a free citizen of the United States. Hip, in fact, was 
no politician ; the changes of states and empires made 
but little impression on him ; but there was one species 
of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that 
was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; 
he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and 
could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dread- 



74 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 
name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which 
might pass either for an expression of resignation to 
his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to 
vary on some points every time he told it, which was, 
doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at 
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and 
not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 
reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and 
his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- 
mon wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor- 
hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they 
might have a quieting draught out of Hip Van Winkle's 
flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. 
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Fred- 
erick der Rothhart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain : the subjoined note, 
however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute 
fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : 



POSTSCRIPT. 75 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for 1 know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and 
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along tlie Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated 
to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 
who, when last 1 saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly 
rational and consistent on every other point, that 1 tliink no conscien- 
tious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, 1 have seen a 
certificate on the subject taken befoi'e a country justice and signed with a 
cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond 
the possibility of doubt. 

D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
Knickerbocker : 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill mountains, have always been a region full 
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influ- 
enced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and 
sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw 
spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the 
Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut 
them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and 
cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propi- 
tiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning 
dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, 
like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the 
heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
spring, the fruits to ripen, and the com to grow an inch an hour. If 
displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in 
the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and 
when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or 
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and 
took a mischievous pleasure in WTeaking all kinds of evils and vexations 
upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a 
panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through 
tangled forests and among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud 



76 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or rag* 
ing torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or 
cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines 
■which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neigh- 
borhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it 
is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes bask- 
ing in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. 
This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the bold- 
est hunter would not pursue his game within its precmcts. Once upon a 
time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden 
rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. 
One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his re- 
treat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, 
which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was 
dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and con- 
tinues to flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known by 
the name of the Kaaters-kill. 




ENGLISH WEITERS ONAMEKICA. 

"Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself 
like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I 
see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her andazzled 
eyes at the full midday beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Pkess. 

T is with feelings of deep regret that I observe 
the literary animosity daily growing up between 
England and America. Great curiosity has been 
awakened of late with respect to the United States, and 
the London press has teemed with volumes of trav- 
els through the Kepublic ; but they seem intended to 
diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so successful 
have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant in- 
tercourse between the nations, there is no people con- 
cerning whom the great mass of the British public have 
less pure information, or entertain more numerous pre- 
judices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the 
world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, 
none can equal them for profound and philosophical 
views of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of 
external objects ; but when either the interest or reput/t^ 

77 



78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion of tlieir own country comes in collision witli that of 
another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget 
their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of 
splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would j)lace im- 
plicit confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the 
regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown 
islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or 
of any other tract which other travellers might be apt 
to picture out with the illusions of their fancies ; but I 
would cautiously receive his account of his immediate 
neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in hab- 
its of most frequent intercourse. However I might be dis- 
posed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While 
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have 
been sent from England to ransack the poles, to pene- 
trate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs 
of barbarous nations, with which she can have no per- 
manent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left 
to the broken-down tradesman, the scheminGr adventurer, 
the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- 
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From 
such sources she is content to receive her information 
respecting a country in a singular state of moral and 
physical development; a country in which one of the 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 79 

greatest political experiments in the history of the world 
is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- 
found and momentous studies to the statesman and the 
philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of 
America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it of- 
fers for contemplation are too vast and elevated for their 
capacities. The national character is yet in a state of 
fermentation ; it may have its frothiness and sediment, 
but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; it has al- 
ready given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; 
and the whole promises to settle down into something 
substantially excellent. But the causes which are oper- 
ating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- 
tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these 
purblind observers ; who are only affected by the little 
asperities incident to its present situation. They are 
capable of judging only of the surface of things ; of those 
matters which come in contact with their private inter- 
ests and personal gratifications. They miss some of the 
snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an 
old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of society; 
where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many 
earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying the 
very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These 
minor comforts, however, are all-important in the estima- 
tion of narrow minds ; v/hich either do not perceive, or 
will not acknowledge, that they are more than counter- 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

balanced among us by great and generally diffused bless- 
ings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some 
unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may 
have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, 
where gold and silver abounded, and the natives were 
lacking in sagacity ; and where they were to become 
strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen, but easy 
manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges ab- 
surd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. 
Such persons become embittered against the country on 
finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow 
before he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and 
talent; and must contend with the common difficulties 
of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and en- 
terprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, 
or from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance 
the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may 
have been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and 
having been accustomed all their lives to consider them- 
selves below the surface of good society, and brought up 
in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant 
on the common boon of civility : they attribute to the 
lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a 
society where there are no artificial distinctions, and 
where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves can 
rise to consequence. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 81 

One would suppose, however, tliat information coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so de- 
sirable, would be received with caution by the censors of 
the press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, 
their opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their 
capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scru- 
tinized before their evidence was admitted, in such sweep- 
ing extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance 
of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigi- 
lance with which English critics will examine the credi- 
bility of the traveller who publishes an account of some 
distant, and comparatively unimportant country. How 
warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, 
or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly will they 
censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely 
curious knowledge : while they will receive, with eager- 
ness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations 
of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country with 
which their own is placed in the most important and 
delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apoc- 
ryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge with a 
zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- 
neyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for 
the undue interest apparently taken in it by my country- 
men, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend it 
might produce upon the national feeling. "We attach too 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

much consequence to these attacks. They cannot do ns 
any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations 
attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs woven 
round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country contin- 
ually outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls 
off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we 
live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for a mo- 
ment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing 
importance, and matchless prosperity. They could not 
conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and 
local, but also to moral causes — to the political liberty, 
the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of 
sound moral and religious principles, which give force 
and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and 
which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonder- 
ful supporters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions 
of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected 
by the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? 
It is not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, 
and reputation has its being. The world at large is the 
arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it wit- 
nesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testi- 
mony is national glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but lit- 
tle importance whether England does us justice or not ; it 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 83 

is, perliaps, of far more importance to lierself. Slie is iu- 
stilling anger and resentment into tlie bosom of a youth- 
ful nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with 
its strength. If in America, as some of her writers are 
laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an in- 
vidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those 
very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated 
hostility. Every one knovrs the all-pervading influence 
of literature at the present day, and how much the opin- 
ions and passions of mankind are under its control. The 
mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds 
are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to 
forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen 
pierce to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest 
spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render 
it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is 
but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities 
between two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a 
previous jealousy and ill-will ; a predisposition to take 
ofience. Trace these to their cause, and how often will 
they be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of 
mercenary writers ; who, secure in their closets, and for 
ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that 
is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over 
no nation does the press hold a more absolute control 
than over the people of America ; for the universal edu- 



84 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cation of the poorest classes makes every Individual a 
reader. There is nothing published in England on the 
subject of our country that does not circulate through 
every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from 
English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an 
English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, 
and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, 
then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the lit- 
erature of the language flows, how completely is it in her 
power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the 
medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream 
where the two nations might meet together, and drink in 
peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in 
turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come 
when she may repent her folly. The present friendship 
of America may be of but little moment to her ; but the 
future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt; 
over those of England there lower some shadows of un- 
certainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; should 
these reverses overtake her, from which the proudest em- 
pires have not been exempt ; she may look back with re- 
gret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a na- 
tion she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus 
destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond 
the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the peo- 
ple of the United States are inimical to the parent coun- 
try. It is one of the errors which have been diligently 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 85 

propagated by designing ■writers. There is, doubtless, 
considerable political hostility, and a general soreness 
at the illiberality of the English press ; but, generally 
speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly 
in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, 
in many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of big- 
otry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to 
the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too 
often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the 
ungrateful. Throughout the country there was some- 
thing of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. 
We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness 
and veneration, as the land of our forefathers — the au- 
gust repository of the monuments and antiquities of our 
race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and 
heroes of our paternal history. After our own country, 
there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none 
whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — 
none towards which our hearts yearned with such throb- 
bings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, 
whenever there was the least opportunity for kind feel- 
ings to spring forth, it was the delight of the generous 
spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hostil- 
ities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 
Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be 
broken for ever? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may 
dispel an illusion which might have kept us in mental 



86 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally 
with our true interests, and prevented the growth of 
proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the 
kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest 
— closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us 
cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther and far- 
ther from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness 
of the parent that would repel the affections of the child. 
Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct 
of England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimi- 
nation on our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak 
not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, 
nor the keenest castigation of her slanderers — ^but I al- 
lude to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort sar- 
casm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems to be spread- 
ing widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly 
against such a temper, for it would double the evil in- 
stead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and 
inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a 
paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative 
of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than 
warmed into indignation. If England is willing to per- 
mit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous ani- 
mosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, 
and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware 
of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse 
error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of check- 
ing emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. 



AMERICAN ANSWERS. 87 

Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, 
for as yet, in all our rivalsliips with England, we are the 
rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to 
answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a 
mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. 
Our retorts are never republished in England ; they fall 
short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous 
and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the 
sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and 
brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they 
circulate through our own country, and, as far as they 
have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last 
is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, 
as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care 
should be taken to preserve the purity of the public 
mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge ; 
whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, 
wilfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men,, 
should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individ- 
ually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, 
and should be enabled to come to all questions of na- 
tional concern with calm and unbiased judgments. From 
the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we 
must have more frequent questions of a difficult and del- 
icate character with her than with any other nation ; 
questions that affect the most acute and excitable feel- 
ings ; and as, in the adjusting of these, our national meas- 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

Tires must ultimately be determined by popular senti- 
ment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it 
from all latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from 
every jDortiou of tlie earth, we should receive all with im- 
partiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example 
of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, 
and exercising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, 
but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring 
from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? They 
are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in 
rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little 
of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries 
with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have 
sprung into national existence in an enlightened and 
philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable 
world, and the various branches of the human family, 
have been indefatigably studied and made known to each 
other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we 
do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the 
local superstitions of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry 
feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of 
what is really excellent and amiable in the English char- 
acter. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative 
one, and must take our examples and models, in a great 
degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no 



DTTTT OF AMERICAN WRITERS. 89 

country more worthy of our study than England. The 
spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their 
freedom of opinion — their habits of thinking on those 
subjects which concern the dearest interests and most 
sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the 
American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically 
excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that 
the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and 
however the superstructure may be time-worn, or over- 
run by abuses, there must be something solid in the 
basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the struc- 
ture of an edifice, that so long has towered unshaken 
amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding 
all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the 
illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English 
nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. 
"While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with 
■which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every 
thing English, merely because it is English, let them 
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. 
"We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol- 
ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions 
from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors and 
absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may 
draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, where- 
with to strengthen and to embellish our national character. 



RUKAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to tlie best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 

HE stranger wlio -would form a correct opinion 
of the English character must not confine his 
observations to the metropolis. He must go 
forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and 
hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cot- 
tages ; he must wander through parks and gardens ; along 
hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country 
churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festi- 
vals ; and cope with the people in all their conditions, 
and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 
and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes 
of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is in- 
habited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- 
land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- 
place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 

they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 

90 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 91 

gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of 
carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial 
habits of rural life. The various orders of society are 
therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of 
the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beau- 
ties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and 
employments of the country. This passion seems inher- 
ent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and 
brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter 
■with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural 
occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the 
vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as 
much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-gar- 
den, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the con- 
duct of his business, and the success of a commercial 
enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who 
are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and 
traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them 
of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and din- 
gy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resem- 
bles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of 
vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; and every 
square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, 
and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to 



92 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

form an unfavorable opinion oi his social character. He 
is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- 
sand engagements that dissijDate time, thought, and feel- 
ing, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too com- 
monly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he 
happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his 
mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a friend- 
ly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so 
as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An 
immense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make 
men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and tran- 
sient meetings, they can but deal briefly in common- 
places. They present but the cold superficies of charac- 
ter — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be 
warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the 
cold formalities and negative civilities of town; throws 
off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and 
free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the 
conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish 
its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every re- 
quisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- 
tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, 
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. 
He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, 
but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 93 

enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to 
his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and 
in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. 
They have studied nature intently, and discover an ex- 
quisite sense of her beautiful forDis and harmonious com- 
binations. Those charms, which in other countries she 
lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the 
haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her 
coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, 
about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 
of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like 
sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of 
gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage : the 
solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the 
deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, 
bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly 
bursting upon the wing: the brook, taught to wind in 
natural meanderings or expand into a glassy lake : the 
sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming 
fearlessly about its limpid waters; while some rustic 
temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, 
gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; 
but what most delights me, is the creative talent with 
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of 



94 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

middle life. Tlie rudest habitation, the most unpromis- 
ing and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- 
lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 
discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabili- 
ties, and pictures in his mind the future landscaj)e. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet 
the operations of art which jjroduce the effect are scarcely 
to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some 
trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice distribu- 
tion of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; 
the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the par- 
tial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
■water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, a per- 
vading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with 
which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in 
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in 
rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The 
very laborer, Avith his thatched cottage and narrow slip of 
ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, 
the grassplot before the door, the little flower-bed bor- 
dered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against 
the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the 
pot of flowers in the window, the holly, providently 
planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, 
and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer 
the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flow- 
ing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest 



BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 95 

levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, 
delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an 
English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 
national character. I do not know a finer race of men 
than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and 
effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most 
countries, they exliibit a union of elegance and strength, 
a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which 
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the 
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recre- 
ations of the country. These hardy exercises produce 
also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness 
and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dis- 
sipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can 
never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different 
orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be 
more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each 
other. The distinctions between them do not appear to 
be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The 
manner in which property has been distributed into small 
estates and farms has established a regular gradation 
from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small 
landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the 
laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the ex- 
tremes of society together, has infused into each inter- 
mediate rank a sj)irit of independence. This, it must be 



96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it 
was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of 
distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the 
country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small 
farmers. These, however, 1 believe, are but casual breaks 
in the general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debas- 
ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural gran- 
deur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his 
own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevat- 
ing of external influences. Such a man may be simple 
and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refine- 
ment, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse 
with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays 
aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the 
distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart- 
felt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amuse- 
ments of the country bring men more and more together ; 
and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into 
harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the no- 
bility and gentry are more popular among the inferior 
orders in England than they are in any other country ; 
and why the latter have endured so many excessive 
pressures and extremities, without rej)ining more gener- 
ally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 



BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 97 

BritisTi literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from 
rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature that 
abound in the British jDoets, that have continued down 
from "the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance 
of the dewj landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional 
visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; 
but the British poets have lived and revelled with her 
— they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they 
have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the 
ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream 
— a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violei^ 
nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but 
it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate 
observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

The eflfect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the coun- 
try. A great part of the island is rather level, and 
would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of cul- 
ture : but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with 
castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gar- 
dens. It does not abound in grand and sublime pros- 
pects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose 
and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and 
moss-grown cottage is a picture : and as the roads aro 
continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves 

7 



98 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succes- 
sion of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the 
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind vs^ith ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend cus- 
tom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of 
regular and peaceful existence. The old church of re- 
mote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its gothic 
tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, 
in scrupulous preservation; its stately monuments of 
warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of 
the present lords of the soil; its tombstones, recording 
successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose pro- 
geny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same 
altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti- 
quated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various 
ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from 
the churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady 
hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way — 
the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its 
public green sheltered by trees, under which the fore- 
fathers of the present race have sported — the antique 
family mansion, standing apart in some little rural do- 
main, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- 
rounding scene : all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, and heredi- 
tary transmission of homebred virtues and local attach- 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 99 

ments, that speal^ deeply and touchingly for the moral 
character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 
\3eU is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, 
to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with rud- 
dy faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly 
along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more 
pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about 
their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the hum- 
ble comforts and embellishments which their own hands 
have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of 
affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the 
parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; 
and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, than 
by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has 
depicted it with remarkable felicity : 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall. 
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed ; 
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 



XOO TEE SKETCn-BOOK. 

A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* 

* From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Rever- 
end Eann Kennedy, A.M. 



THE BEOKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
"With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

T is a common practice with those who have 
outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or 
have been brought up in the gay heartlessness 



of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists 
and poets. My observations on human nature have in- 
duced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me, 
that however the surface of the character may be chilled 
and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into 
mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant 
fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, 
when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are some- 
times desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true 
believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of 
his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. 
I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my 

101 



X02 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many 
a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the 
world. . Love is but the embellishment of his early life, 
or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for 
fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and 
dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life 
is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : it 
is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in 
the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is 
hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion 
some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness 
— it blasts some prospects of felicity -; but he is an active 
being — ho may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of 
varied occupation, or may. plunge into the tide of pleas- 
ure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of 
painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and 
taking as it were the wings of the morning, can " fly to 
the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to minis- 
ters of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? 
Her lot is to be *vooed and won ; and if unhappy in her 



THE BROKEN HEART. 108 

love, her heart is like some fortress that has been cap- 
tured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft 
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into 
the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their 
loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, 
and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its 
vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the 
world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a 
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when for- 
tunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, 
and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her 
peace. With her tlie desire of the heart has failed. The 
great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all 
the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken 
the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the s'weet re- 
freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — 
" dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame 
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, 
after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but 
lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, 
should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
the worm." You will be told of some wintry cliill, some 
casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — ^bul; no one 
knows of the mental malady which previously sapped. 



104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the 
spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of 
the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but 
with the worm preying at its heart. "We find it suddenly 
withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. 
"We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shed- 
ding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls 
even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over 
the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast 
or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the 
earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and 
have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death 
through the various declensions of consumption, cold, 
debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first 
symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the 
kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well 
known in the country where they happened, and I shall 
but give them in the manner in which they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 

E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon 

forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, 
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He 
was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so 
every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His 



THE BROKEN HEART. 105 

conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The 
noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of 
treason against his country — the eloquent vindication 
of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in 
the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered 
deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies 
lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be 
impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer for- 
tunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and inter- 
esting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish bar- 
rister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a 
woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim 
arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and 
disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved 
him the more ardently for his A-ery sufferings. If, then, 
his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what 
must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was 
occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have had the 
portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, 
whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 
^ But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so 
dishonored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on 
that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those 
tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear 
the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those 



106 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

blessed tears, sent like the dews of, lieaven to revive the 
heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she 
had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate 
attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. 
But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have 
reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she 
would have experienced no want of consolation, for the 
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. 
The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid 
her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led 
into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation 
and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from 
the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. 
There are some strt^kes of calamity which scathe and 
scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of 
happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or 
blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of 
pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths 
of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently 
unconscious of the world around her. She carried with 
her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments 
of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, 
charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a 
masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone 
wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it 
in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, 



THE BipEEN HEART. 107 

lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it 
dressed out iu tlie trappings of mirth, and looking so 
wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the 
poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for 
some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibil- 
ity to the garish scene, she began, with the capricious- 
ness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. 
She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was 
so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of 
wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but ex- 
cite great interest iu a country remarkable for enthu- 
siasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, 
who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so 
true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the 
living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts 
were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former 
lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited 
not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own 
destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on 
the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length suc- 
ceeded iu gaining her hand, though with the solemn 
assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. 



108 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change 
of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. 
She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an 
effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the 
silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into 
her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless 
decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a 
broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains. 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 

From her own loved island of sorrow \ 



THE AET OF BOOK-MAKING. 

"If that severe doom of Synesius be true — 'It is a greater offence to steal 
dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ? " 

Burton's Anatomy of "Melancholy. 

HAVE often wondered at tlie extreme fecundity 
of the press, and liow it comes to pass that so 
many heads, on which nature seemed to have 
inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with volu- 
minous productions. As a man travels on, however, in 
the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, 
and he is continually finding out some very simple cause 
for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, 
in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to 
blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the 
mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an 
end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great sa- 
loons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm 
weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of min- 
erals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyp- 
tian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal 

success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the 

109 



110 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lofty ceilings. "Whilst I was gazing about in this idle 
•way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the 
end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every 
now and then it would open, and some strange-favored 
being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and 
glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the sur- 
rounding objects. There was an air of mystery about 
this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined 
to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the 
unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, 
with that facility with whicli the portals of enchanted 
castles jdeld to the adventurous knight-errant. I found 
myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great 
cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just 
under the cornice, were arranged a great number of 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the 
room were placed long tables, with stands for reading 
and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, 
poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their 
contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mys- 
terious apartment, excepting that you might hear the 
racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the 
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position 
to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising 
from that hoUowness and flatulency incident to learned 
research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 



ZZV THE BBITISn LIBRARY. HI 

sometliing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, 
whereupon a familiar would ajDpear, take the paper in 
profound silence, glide out of the room, and return short- 
ly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the other 
would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had 
no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body 
of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. 
The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a 
philosopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the 
bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year ; 
where he made the spirits of the place bring him books 
of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the 
year, when the magic portal once more swung oj^en on 
its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as 
to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and 
to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 
me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I 
found that these mysterious personages, whom I had 
mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in the 
very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the 
reading-room of the great British Library — an immense 
collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom 
read : one of these sequestered pools of obsolete litera- 
ture, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets 



112 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," where- 
with to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book manufac- 
tory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who 
sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed 
in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some 
work of profound erudition, that would be purchased 
by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed 
upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open 
upon his table ; but never read. I observed him, now 
and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of hia 
pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether 
he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the 
stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, 
I leave to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one da]3per little gentleman in bright-col- 
ored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of 
countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on 
good terms with his bookseller. After considering him 
attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of 
miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the 
trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his 
wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering 
over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, 
a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of 



TEE ART OF BOOK-MAEING. 113 

his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the 
witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and 
there a thumb, toe of frog and blind- worm's sting, with 
his own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make 
the medley " slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition 
be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not 
be the way in which Providence has taken care that the 
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works 
in which they were first produced ? We see that nature 
has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- 
ance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
birds ; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunder- 
ers of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's 
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In 
like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient 
and obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of 
predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and 
bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of 
their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and 
spring up under new forms. What was formerly a pon- 
derous history revives in the shape of a romance — an old 
legend changes into a modern play — and a sober philo- 
sophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of 
bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clear- 
ing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down a 



114 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start tip 
in their place : and we never see tlie prostrate trunk of a 
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole 
tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 
into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit 
to the great law of nature, which declares that all sublu- 
nary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, 
but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never 
perish. Generation after generation, both in animal 
and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle 
is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and 
having produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age 
they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — and from whom they had 
stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I 
had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. 
"Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from 
these works ; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to 
the lassitude arising from much wandering; or to an un- 
lucky habit of napping at improper times and places, 
with which I am grievously afilicted, so it was, that I fell 
into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued 
busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my 
mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. 
I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the 



MY DREAM. 115 

portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was in- 
creased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place 
of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, 
such as may be seen plying about the great repository of 
cast-off clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized 
upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign 
or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip 
themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to 
clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve 
from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus 
decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original 
rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volumin- 
ous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having pur- 
loined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look 
exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his 
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. 
One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a 
very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of sev- 
eral old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illu- 
minated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from " The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and hav- 
ing put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, 
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A 



116 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure 
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I per- 
ceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps 
of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, 
who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which spar- 
kled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. 
Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the 
old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, 
and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that 
too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe 
in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not 
omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, 
and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the 
pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined 
to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes 
of the Eegent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths 
and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging 
his head on one side, went about with a fantastical lack- 
a-daisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the 
personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- 
cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably 
large and square, but bald head. He entered the room 
wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the 
throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having 
laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon 



MY DREAM. 117 

his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable 
frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- 
denly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves ! " 
I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became 
animated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then 
a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for 
an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended 
with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. 
The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles 
all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain 
to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen 
half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on 
another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks 
of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, 
and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when 
a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dap- 
per little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time 
since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and 
colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention 
of claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patro- 
clus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had 
been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain 
to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. 
Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gen- 
tleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling 
away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full 



X18 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cry after liim ! They were close upon liis haunclies : in a 
twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of 
raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from 
his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, 
" chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a few 
tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe 
of this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate 
fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tu- 
mult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber re- 
sumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk 
back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy 
solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself 
wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of 
book-worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing 
of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a 
sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and 
so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the 
fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was 
a kind of literary " preserve," subject to game-laws, and 
that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- 
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
let loose upon me. 



Ml 



l?!l 




"^^ — rrM I i 1 11 iiiiiiijiff 




A EOYAL POET, 

Though j-our body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Tet the beauty of your mind 
Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, tiien, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

|N a soft sunny morning in the genial month of 
May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. 
It is a place full of storied and poetical asso- 
ciations. The very external aspect of the proud old 
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its 
irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown, 
round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner 
in the clouds, and looks down, witli a lordly air, upon 
the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous 
rernal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a 
man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and dis- 
posing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In 
wandering through the magnificent saloons and long 
echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifier- 
ence by whole rows of portraits of warriors and states- 

119 



120 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

men, but lingered in tlie chamber, wbere liang the 
likenesses of the beauties wliicli graced the gay court 
of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, de- 
picted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the 
sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter 
Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the re- 
flected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large 
green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, 
and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was en- 
grossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but 
hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about 
them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady 
Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited 
the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First 
of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and 
historians, was for many years of his youth detained a 
prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has 
stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preserva- 
tion. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above 
the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps 
leads to the interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, 
furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I 
was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, 
which had once belonged to James. Hence I was con- 



A ROYAL POET. 121 

ducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded 
magnificence, liung with storied tapestry, wliich formed 
his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanci- 
ful amour, which has woven into the web of his story 
the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate 
prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven 
he was sent from home by his father, Eobert III., and 
destined for the French court, to be reared under the 
eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery 
and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scot- 
land. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage 
to fall into the hands of the English, and he was de- 
tained prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a 
truce existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
father. " The news," we are told, " was brought to him 
while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, 
that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the 
hands of the servant that attended him. But being car- 
ried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and 
in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." * 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; 
but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated 
"Mrith the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to in- 

* Buchanan. 



122 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

struct him in all the branches of useful knowledge culti- 
vated at that period, and to give him those mental and 
personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. 
Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan- 
tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclu- 
sively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that 
rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant 
tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. 
The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish 
historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the 
description of a hero of romance, than of a character in 
real history. He was well learnt, we are told, " to fight 
with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing 
and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in 
playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instru- 
ments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and 
poetry." * 

With this combination of manly and delicate accom- 
plishments, fitting him to shine both in active and ele- 
gant life, and calculated to give him an intense relish for 
joyous existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an 
age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his 
years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune 
of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic 
fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest in- 
spirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow 

* Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 



A ROYAL POET. 123 

inactive, under tlie loss of personal liberty ; otliers grow 
morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of tlie poet to 
become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of con- 
finement. He banquets upon the honey of his own 
thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul 
in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
now cloth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, 
that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real 
world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and 
with a necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes 
and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude pop- 
ulous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such 
was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round 
Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived 
the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may con- 
sider the " King's Quair," composed by James, during his 
captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful break- 
ings-forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the 
prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane 

* Roger L'Estrange. 



124 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

Beaufort, daughter of tlie Earl of Somerset, and a prin- 
cess of tlie blood royal of England, of wliom lie became 
enamored in tlie course of his captivity. What gives it 
a peculiar value, is that it may be considered a transcript 
of the royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his real 
loves and fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write 
poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the 
pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as 
it were, for admission into his closet, and seeking to win 
his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof 
of the honest equality of intellectual competition, which 
strips oif all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings 
the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and 
obliges him to depend on his own native powers for dis- 
tinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a 
monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of hu- 
man nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had 
learnt to be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled 
in adversity, and reared in the company of his own 
thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with 
their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; 
and had James been brought up amidst the adulation 
and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, 
have had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of 
the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concern- 
ing his situation, or which are connected with the apart- 
ment in the tower. They have thus a personal and local 



A ROYAL POET. 125 

charm, and are given with such circumstantial truth, 
as to make the reader present with the captive in his 
prison, and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness 
of spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the 
idea of writing the poem. It was the still midwatch 
of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says, were 
twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven : and " Cyn- 
thia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in 
bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile 
the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' 
Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among the 
writers of that day, and which had been translated by 
his great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium 
in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his 
favorite volumes while in prison : and indeed it is an 
admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It 
is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified 
by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors 
in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the 
trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it 
was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. 
It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure 
up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon 
his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over 
in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on 
the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own 



126 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his 
tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to 
matins; but its sound, chiming in with his melancholy 
fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to 
write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he 
determines to comply with this intimation : he there- 
fore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the 
cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the 
fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely 
fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing 
a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner 
in which whole trains of poetical thought are some- 
times awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to 
the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails 
the peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely 
and inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and 
pleasure of the world, in which the meanest animal in- 
dulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, in 
his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of an ami- 
able and social spirit at being denied the indulgence of 
its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in 
them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural 
and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more 
touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely 
with those elaborate and iterated repinings, which we 
sometimes meet with in poetry ; — the effusions of morbid 
minds sickening under miseries of their own creating, 



A ROYAL POET. 127 

and venting tlieir bitterness upon an unoffending world. 
James speaks of his privations witli acute sensibility, but 
having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly mind 
disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When 
such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, 
we are aware how great must be the suffering that ex- 
torts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman- 
tic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lusti- 
hood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and 
vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to 
all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he 
breathes forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over 
his perpetual blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, 
we might almost have suspected that these lowerings 
of gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the 
brightest scene of his story; and to contrast with that 
refulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating ac- 
companiment of bird and song, and foliage and flower, 
and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the 
lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which 
throws all the magic of romance about the old Castle 
Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to 
custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleep- 
less pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," de- 
spairing of all joy and remedy, " fortired of thought and 
wobegone," he had wandered to the window, to indulge 
the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon 



128 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the world from which he is excluded. The window 
looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of 
the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with 
arbors and green alleys, and protected from the }>dssing 
gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were. 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis f set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was in 

* Lyf, Person. \ Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note.—1h.Q language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



A BOYAL POET. 129 

bloom ; and lie interprets the song of the nightingale into 
the language of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 
For of your bliss the kalends are be^n, 

And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of 
the birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender 
and undefinable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom 
in this delicious season. He wonders what this love may 
be, of which he has so often read, and which thus seems 
breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and 
melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be 
so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dis- 
pensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
cut off from its enjoyments ? 

Oft would I think, Lord, what may this be. 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 

Loving his f olke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
May he oure hertes setten * and unbynd : 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For giff he be of so grete excellence, 

Tliat he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What liave I gilt f to him, or done offense. 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 



* Setten, incline. f Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 

9 



130 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye down- 
ward, he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young 
floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady 
Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that 
"fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon 
his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited sus- 
ceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the ro- 
mantic prince, and becomes the object of his wandering 
wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resem- 
blance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; 
where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom 
they see walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps 
the similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he 
had read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell 
on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is 
given in the picturesque and minute manner of his mas- 
ter ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is a perfect 
portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the 
fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from 
the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, 
that confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine 
of small orfeverye " * about her neck, whereby there 
hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, 
like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her 
dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk 

* Wrought gold. 



A ROYAL POET. 131 

with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female 
attendants, and about her sported a little hound decor- 
ated with bells ; probably the small Italian hound of ex- 
quisite symmetry, which was a parlor favorite and pet 
among the fashionable dames of ancient times. James 
closes his description by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, i-ichesse, and womanly feature ; 

God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse,* estate, f and cunning f sure. 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an 
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs 
the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm 
over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into lone- 
liness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this 
passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long 
and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when 
evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully ex- 
presses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," 
he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon 
the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and 
sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of 
the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," 

* Largesse, bounty. f Estate, dignity. :j: Cunning, discretion. 



132 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

into a vision, whicli occupies tlie remainder of the poem, 
and in wliicll is allegorically sliadowed out tlie liistorj of 
Lis passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his 
stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary 
reflections, questions his spirit, whither it has been wan- 
dering ; whether, indeed, all that has passed before his 
dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding cir- 
cumstances ; or whether it is a vision, intended to com- 
fort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, ho 
prays that some token may be sent to confirm the prom- 
ise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Sud- 
denly, a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes fly- 
ing in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing 
in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of 
which is written, in letters of gold, the following sen- 
tence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; 
reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first 
token of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a 
mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did ac- 
tually send him a token of her favor in this romantic 
way, remains to be determined according to the faith 
or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by in- 



A ROYAL POET. 133 

timating tliat the promise conveyed in the vision and 
by the flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to lib- 
erty, and made happy in the possession of the sover- 
eign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his 
love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is 
absolute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, 
it is fruitless to conjecture : let us not, however, reject 
every romantic incident as incompatible with real life ; 
but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have 
noticed merely those parts of the poem immediately 
connected with the tower, and have passed over a large 
part, written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated 
at^ that day. The language, of course, is quaint and 
antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden 
phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day ; 
but it is impossible not to be charmed with the gen- 
uine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature 
too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cul- 
tivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and 
exquisite delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every 
gross thought or immodest expression, and presenting 
female loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes 
of almost supernatural purity and grace. 



134 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

James flourislied nearly about tlie time of Chaucer 
and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier 
of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he ac- 
knowledges them as his masters ; and, in some parts of 
his poem, we find traces of similarity to their produc- 
tions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are 
always, however, general features of resemblance in the 
works of contemporary authors, which are not so much 
borrowed from each other as from the times. Writers, 
like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they in- 
corporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and 
thoughts current in society; and thus each generation 
has some features in common, characteristic of the age 
in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of 
our literary history, and establishes the claims of his 
country to a participation in its primitive honors. 
"Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constant- 
ly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their 
great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in si- 
lence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in 
that little constellation of remote but never-failing lumi- 
naries, who shine in the highest firmament of litera- 
ture, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the 
bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scot- 
tish history (though the manner in which it has of late 
been woven with captivating fiction has made it a uni- 



A EOYAL POET. 135 

versal study), may be curious to learn sometlilng of tlie 
subsequent history of James, and the fortunes of his 
love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the 
solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it 
being imagined by the court that a connection with 
the blood royal of England would attach him to its 
own interests. He was ultimately restored to his lib- 
erty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
Jane, who accompanied iiim to Scotland, and made him 
a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and 
irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- 
selves in their possessions, and place themselves above 
the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis 
of his power in the affections of his people. He attached 
the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the 
temperate and equable administration of justice^ the en- 
couragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of 
every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and 
innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of soci- 
ety. He mingled occasionally among the common people 
in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their 
cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed 
himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best 
be patronized and improved ; and was thus an all-pervad- 
ing spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the mean- 
est of his subjects. Having in this generous manner 



136 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

made liimself strong in tlie hearts of the common people, 
he turned himself to curb the power of the factious 
nobility; to strip them of those dangerous immunities 
which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been 
guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into 
proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore 
this with outward submission, but wiih secret impatience 
and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at length 
formed against his life, at the head of which was his own 
uncle, Eobert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old 
himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, insti- 
gated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir 
Eobert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the 
deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the Domini- 
can Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and bar- 
barously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His 
faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between 
him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual 
attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not 
until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the 
murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- 
place in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with 
more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging 
up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure 
in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and ro- 
mantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced 



A ROYAL POET. 137 

the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; 
I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade 
myself it was the very one where he had been vis- 
ited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he 
had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial 
and joyous month ; the birds were again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody ; every thing was burst- 
ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender prom- 
ise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the 
sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed 
lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to 
have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries 
have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of 
the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the 
Keep ; and though some parts have been separated by 
dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and 
shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole 
is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm 
about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of 
departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of 
the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by 
the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hal- 
low every place in which it moves ; to breathe around 
nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the 
rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the 
blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as 
a warrior and legislator ; but I have delighted to view him 



138 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

merely as tlie companion of his fellow-men, the benefac- 
tor of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to 
sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of 
common life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous 
and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since be- 
come so prolific of the most wholesome and highly-fla- 
vored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions 
of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. 
He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen to 
the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and 
refine the character of a people, and wreathe a grace 
round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit He 
wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness 
of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which is still 
preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows 
how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the 
rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute such a 
source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish 
peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he 
could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed 
greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his 
tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in 
those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains 
and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his 
image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in 
the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in 
song, and floated his name to after ages in the rich 
streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of these 



A ROYAL POET. 139 

things was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent 
scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with 
as mucli enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the slirine 
at Loretto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion 
than when contemplating the old Tower and the little 
garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves 
of the Lady Jane and the Eoyal Poet of Scotland. 



THE COUNTEY CHUECH. 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 



Beggar's Bush. 



HERE are few places more favorable to tte 
study of character than an English country 
church. I was once passing a few weeks at 
the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, 
the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. 
It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity 
which give such a peculiar charm to English landscape. 
It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient 
families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, 
the congregated dust of many noble generations. The 
interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every 
age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in 
stained glass. In various parts of the church were 
tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous 
workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On 
every side the eye was struck with some instance of 

140 



TEE COUNTRY CHURCH. 141 

aspiring mortality ; some liauglity memorial whicli hu- 
man pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring 
people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined 
and cushioned, furnished with richly - gilded prayer- 
books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew 
doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the 
back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and 
of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches 
in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed 
vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He 
was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neigh- 
borhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the 
country; until age and good living had disabled him 
from doing any thing more than ride to see the hounds 
throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impos- 
sible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time 
and place : so, having, like many other feeble Christians, 
compromised with my conscience, by laying the sin of 
my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I oc- 
cupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to no- 
tice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as 
usual, that there was the least pretension where there 
was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was par- 



142 THE SKETCn-BOOK 

ticularly struck, for instance, with the family of a noble- 
man of high rank, consisting of several sons and daugh- 
ters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than 
their appearance. They generally came to church in the 
plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies 
would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the 
peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories 
of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open 
and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refine- 
ment, but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and 
an engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and 
elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but without 
any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor 
was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble 
frankness, which bespeak freeborn souls that have never 
been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. 
There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that 
never dreads contact and communion with others, how- 
ever humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid 
and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was 
pleased to see the manner in which they would con- 
verse with the peasantry about those rural concerns 
^and field-sports, in which the gentlemen of this coun- 
try so much delight. In these conversations there was 
neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on 
the other; and you were only reminded of the differ- 
ence of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant 



THE COUNTRY CHURCE 143 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citi- 
zen, who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having pur- 
chased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in 
the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all tho 
style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The 
family always came to church en prince. They were 
rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with 
arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be 
placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly 
laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, 
was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside 
him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bou- 
quets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. TliG carriage 
rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar state- 
liness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, 
arched their necks, and glanced their eyes mo^re proudly 
than common horses ; either because they had caught a 
little of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly 
than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splen- 
did pageant was brought up to the gate of the church- 
yard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning 
of an angle of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, 
straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, 
and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the mo- 
ment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The 
horses were urged and checked until they were fretted 



144 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

into a foam. Thej threw out tlieir feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of 
villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipi- 
tately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. 
On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a 
suddenness that produced an immediate stop, and almost 
threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for 
the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- 
zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, 
looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- 
tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market 
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable 
dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but 
little pride in her composition. She was the picture of 
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well 
with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, 
a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing 
was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about, and 
visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; 
it was one long Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, 
that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to 
be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, 
though no one could deny the richness of their decora- 
tions, yet their appropriateness might be questioned 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 145 

amidst tlie simplicity of a country church. They de- 
scended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line 
of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it 
trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that 
passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until 
they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their 
countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and 
they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in a manner that showed they were 
but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eyeing every one askance that came near them, as 
if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they were 
without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially ; for 
their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, 
had been disciplined into the absence of ail ease and 
freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them 
as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the name- 
less grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed 
for the common purposes of life, and had that air of 
supercilious assumption which is never seen" in the true 
gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
10 



146 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

tliese two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the un- 
pretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no re- 
spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true 
nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries 
where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own standing are 
least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing 
is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks 
to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a 
respect for sacred things, and sacred places, insej)arable 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were 
in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a con- 
tinual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to 
the service. He took the whole burden of family devo- 
tion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering 
the responses with a loud voice that might be heard all 
over the church. It was evident that he was one of those 
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of 
devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow 
or other, of the government party, and religion " a very 



TEE COUNTRY CHURCH. 147 

excellent sort of thing, tliat ouglit to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

Wlien he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed 
more by way of example to the lower orders, to show 
them that, though so great and wealthy, he was not 
above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alder- 
man swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smack- 
ing his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it "ex- 
cellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to 
witness the several exits of my groups. The young 
noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre- 
ferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with 
the country people as they went. The others departed 
as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equi- 
pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glit- 
tering of harness. The horses started off almost at a 
bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; 
the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the aspiring 
family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde ag;e, within whose silver haires 
Honour aud reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tambxjrlainb. 



HOSE who are in the habit of remarking such 
matters, must have noticed the passive quiet 
ivT'-^''^:] of an English landscape on Sunday. The clack- 
ing of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, 
the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the 
ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds 
of rural labor are suspended. The very farm dogs bark 
less frequently, being less disturbed by passing travel- 
lers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds 
sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its 
fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the 
hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be 
a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the 
face of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless 
passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural re- 

148 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 149 

ligion of the soul gently springing up within us. For 
my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country 
church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I 
experience nowhere else ; and if not a more religious, I 
think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other 
day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used 
frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shad- 
owy aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken 
panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, 
seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but 
being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter 
of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt 
myself continually thrown back upon the world by the 
frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The 
only being in the whole congregation who appeared 
thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a 
true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending 
Tinder the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the 
traces of something better than abject poverty. The lin- 
gerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. 
Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupu- 
lously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded 
;her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, 
but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to 
have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to 
have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When 
I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 



150 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her 
palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to 
read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I felt per- 
suaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose 
to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell 
of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and 
this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently at- 
tracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small 
stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way 
through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The 
church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed al- 
most coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up 
lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gener- 
ally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still 
sunny morning, watching two laborers who were dig- 
ging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote 
and neglected corners of the church-yard; where, from 
the number of nameless graves around, it would appear 
that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the 
earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the 
only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on 
the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down 
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the ap- 
proach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of pov- 
erty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of 
the plainest materials, without j)all or other covering, 
was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 



THE WIDO W AND HER SON. 151 

before with an air of cold indifference. There were no 
mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but 
there was one real mourner who feebly tottered afte. 
the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — - 
the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the 
steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
friend, who was endeavoring . to comfort her. A few of 
the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some 
children of the village were running hand in hand, now 
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to 
gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, 
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. 
The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The 
deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pen- 
niless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but 
coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but 
a few steps from the church door ; his voice could 
scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear 
the funei-al service, that sublime and touching ceremony, 
turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I apjjroached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of 
it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, 
but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body. 



152 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and a convulsiye motion of her lips, tliat she was gazing 
on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a 
mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the 
earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so 
harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions 
given in the cold tones of business : the striking of spades 
into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we 
love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle 
around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched 
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords 
to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, 
and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who 
attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise 
her from the earth, and to whisper something like con- 
solation — "Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely 
to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her 
hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking 
of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some 
accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, 
all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any 
harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach 
of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat 
— ^my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a 
barbarous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. I53 

scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part 
of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral 
train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was 
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and desti- 
tution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are 
the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — 
pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate 
their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their 
growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and 
ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the 
sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to 
soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best 
is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth 
of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; 
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impo- 
tency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the church-yard. On 
my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted 
as comforter : she was just returning from accompanying 
the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had 
witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest 



154 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the 
assistance of a small garden, liad supported themselves 
creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blame- 
less life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the 
staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir ! " said the good 
woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his 
parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, 
dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, 
supporting his old mother to church — for she was always 
fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her good 
man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, 
for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into tlie ser- 
vice of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring 
river. He had not been long in this employ when he was 
entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His 
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that 
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main 
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heart- 
less and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The 
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no 
longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still 
there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the vil^ 
lage, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest in- 
habitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which 
she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. I55 

to remain in it, where slie lived solitary and almost help- 
less. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied 
from the scanty productions of her little garden, which 
the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It 
was but a few days before the time at which these cir- 
cumstances were told me, that she was gathering some 
vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door 
which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger 
came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly 
around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaci- 
ated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by 
sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened to- 
vvards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he 
;ank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. 
]hQ poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wan- 
dering eye — "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you 
know your son ? your poor boy, George ? " It was indeed 
the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by 
wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at 
length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose 
among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely 
blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he 
might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Na- 
ture, however, was exhausted in him ; and if any thing 
had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desola- 
tion of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He 



156 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed 
mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never 
rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers 
had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort 
and assistance that their humble means afforded. He 
was too weak, however, to talk — he could only look 
his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant ; 
and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other 
hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the 
pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings 
it back to the feelings of infancy. "Who that has lan- 
guished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despon- 
dency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect 
and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought on the 
mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed 
his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! 
there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother 
to her son that transcends all other affections of the 
heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to 
his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his 
prosperity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be 
the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle 
upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. I57 

spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him 
off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and 
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from 
his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he 
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over 
him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 
and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a child. In this 
way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- 
tion was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and admin- 
ister pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I 
found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the 
villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the 
case admitted : and as the poor know best how to console 
each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down 
the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like 
mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more touch- 
ing than this struggle between pious affection and utter 
poverty : a black ribbon or so — a faded black handker- 
chief, and one or two more such humble attempts to ex- 
press by outward signs that grief which passes show. 



158 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

"When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the 
stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which 
grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sor- 
row, at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers 
and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that 
this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They ex- 
erted themselves to render her situation more comfort- 
able, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, 
but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of 
a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual 
seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I 
heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly 
breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, 
in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
are never parted. 




A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* 

N a preceding paper I have spoken of an Eng- 
lish Sunday in the country, and its tranquilliz- 
ing effect upon the landscape ; but where is its 
sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the 
very heart of that great Babel, London? On this sa- 
cred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. 
The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an 
end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and man- 
ufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer ob- 
scured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, 
yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- 
trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious 
countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are 
smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they 
have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, 
with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind a3 
well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
issues from his mansion the family of the decent trades- 

* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 

159 



ICO 2'if£7 SKETCH-BOOK. 

man, the small children in the advance ; then the citizen 
and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daugh- 
ters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the 
folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid 
looks after them from the window, admiring the finery 
of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile 
from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has 
assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of 
the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and 
now the patter of many feet announces a procession of 
charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each 
with a prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of 
the carriage has ceased; the pattering of feet is heard 
no more ; the flocks are folded in ancient churches, 
cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded 
city, where the vigilant beadle keejDs watch, like the 
shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. 
For a time every thing is hushed ; but soon is heard 
the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and 
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts ; and the 
sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with 
melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible 
of the sanctifying effect of church music, than when 
I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, 
through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, 
elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions 



A SUNDA Y IN LONDON. 161 

of the week ; and bearing tlie poor world-worn soul on 
a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are 
again alive with the congregations returning to their 
homes, but soon again relapse into silence. Now comes 
on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is 
a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for 
social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family 
can now gather together, who are separated by the la- 
borious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be 
permitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; 
an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sun- 
day seat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, 
and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions 
to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the 
parks and rural environs. Satirists may say what they 
please about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen 
on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in 
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty 
city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw 
himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a 
child restored to the mother's breast; and they who 
first spread out these noble parks and magnificent 
pleasure-grounds which surround this huge metropo- 
lis, have done at least as much for its health and 
morality, as if they had expended the amount of cost 
in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 
11 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAB 

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 1 
have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should 
say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 
' it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombik. 

T is a pious custom, in some Catliolic countries, 
to honor the memory of saints by votive lights 
burnt before their pictures. The popularity of 
a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these 
offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the dark- 
ness of his little chapel ; another may have a solitary 
lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while 
the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of 
some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee 
brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his 
seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pil- 
grim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is 
thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little 
lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the 
eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; 
and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almosB 

163 



TEE BOAR'S HEAD TAYERN. 163 

smoked out of countenance by tlie officiousness of his 
followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shak- 
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to 
light up some portion of his character or works, and to 
rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, 
opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations ; 
the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity 
from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and every 
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy 
or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of 
homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for 
some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should 
discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every 
attempt at a new reading ; every doubtful line had been 
explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond 
the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they 
had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, 
so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with 
panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult 
now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a 
beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 



164 TEE SKETCn-BOOK. 

and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and 
with such force and consistency are the characters sus- 
tained, that they become mingled up in the mind with 
the facts and personages of real life. To few readers 
does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's 
brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry 
roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of East- 
cheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as 
valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thou- 
sand years since : and, if I may be excused such an insen- 
sibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not 
give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chroni- 
cle. What have the heroes of yoro done for me, or men 
like me ? They have conquered countries of which I do 
not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which 
I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples 
of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the oppor- 
tunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Fal- 
staff! — kind Jack Falstaff! — sweet Jack Falstaff! — has 
enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment : he has 
added vast regions of wit and good humor,. in which the 
poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never- 
failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind 
merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me : "I will make a pil- 
grimage to EastcheajD," said I, closing the book, " and 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAYEBN. 165 

see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who 
knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of 
Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, there will be 
a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal with 
their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the 
empty cask once filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in exe- 
cution. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted 
regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of Little Brit- 
ain, and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton- 
street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its 
two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and 
the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited Lon- 
don Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of 
that arch rebel. Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where 
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 
roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : there was 
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." 
Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring 
days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has 
given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of 
pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of 



166 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and 
no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from 
Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame 
Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in 
relief in stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at 
present is built into the parting line of two houses, which 
stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, 
I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, 
who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was 
looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neigh- 
borhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the 
window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet 
square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door 
opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a 
vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, which 
comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and 
the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and 
had her being, for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and 
little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was 
doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the his- 
tory of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed 
the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communi- 
cative disposition, which I have generally remarked in 
intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their 
neighborhood. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 167 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of 
the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly es- 
poused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, 
when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon re- 
built, and continued to flourish under the old name and 
sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for dou- 
ble scores, bad measures, and other iniquities, which are 
incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to 
make his peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern 
to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the sup- 
porting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings 
were regularly held there ; but it was observed that the 
old Boar never held up his head under church govern- 
ment. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last 
gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture 
of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which 
stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was 
now my determination ; so, having informed myself of the 
abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable 
chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised 
greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished 
an important incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difiiculty, and much curious inquiry, 
to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had 
to explore Crooked Lane, and diverse little alleys, and 
elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is 



168 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

perforated, like an ancient clieese, or a worm-eaten cliest 
of drawers. At length I traced liim to a corner of a 
small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the in- 
habitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a 
community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a 
bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in 
his eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a 
small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, 
and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- 
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, 
and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot 
of ale — for the lower classes of English seldom deliber- 
ate on any weighty matter without the assistance of a 
cool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at 
the moment when they had finished their ale and their 
argument, and were about to repair to the church to put 
it in order ; so having made known my wishes, I received 
their gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing 
a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the 
tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every 
profession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation 
of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty 
fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much 
reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVEIiJV. 169 

feel on contemplating the tomb of Yirgil, or soldiers tlie 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illus- 
trious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, Wil- 
liam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the 
sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy 
of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor 
on record famous for deeds of arms : — the sovereigns 
of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific 
of all potentates.* 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this 
worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
"William Walworth callyd by name ; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior. as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght. 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent. 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this IjS the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the vener- 
able Stowe. " Whereas, " saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by 
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir Wilham 
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not 
Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such 
testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or 
captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second 
was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. 

Stowe's London. 



170 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Adjoining tlie church, in a small cemetery, immedi- 
tely under the back window of what was once the Boar's 
Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom 
drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since 
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling 
career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of 
his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 
his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with 
a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, that 
once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind 
was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors 
and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the liv- 
ing were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of hon- 
est Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call of 
"waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden 
appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the 
parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirre gar- 
land of Captain Death ; " to the discomfiture of sundry 
train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel 
attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, 
and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, 
except in the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge 
myself for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though 
it is well known that the church-yards and by-corners 
of this old metropolis are very much infested with per- 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVEBm 171 

turbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of the 
Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the 
regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many 
bold sentinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to 
have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued 
Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to 
have been equally prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " 
and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for 
Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture 
to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his 
sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the 
sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and 
the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of 
the church, however, did not appear much captivated by 
the sober virtues of the tapster; the deputy organist, 
who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd 
remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for 
the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of 
some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



172 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

among full liogslieads ; and the little sexton corroborated 
liis opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious sliake of 
the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 
on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of ifiy quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting 
was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and 
amen ! " said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was 
giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, 
when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious 
in every thing relative to the old tavern, ofiered to show 
me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been 
handed down from remote times, when the parish meet- 
ings were held at the Boar's Head. These were de- 
posited in the parish club-room, which had been trans- 
ferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a 
tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 
12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, 
and is kej)t by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully- 
rock" of the establishment. It is one of those little 
taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and form 
the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. 
"We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling ; 
for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are 
enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad 
day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was 



THE BOAR 'S HEAD TA VEEN. I73 

partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread 
with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed 
that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided 
their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the 
lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which 
a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass 
candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the man- 
telpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. 
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, 
parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, 
and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but 
every thing had that look of order and neatness, which 
bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English house- 
wife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might 
be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves 
in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher 
pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back- 
room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a 
skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and 
ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evi- 
dently appropriated to particular customers, and I found 
a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, 
seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of 
porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with 
an air of profound importance imparted to her my er- 
rand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling 
little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of 



174 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with 
an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the 
archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the 
parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
courtesying, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobac- 
co-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the 
vestry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time 
immemorial ; and which was never suffered to be pro- 
faned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. I 
received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my 
delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting 
of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the out- 
side of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was 
to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full 
revel ; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force, 
with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- 
modores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit 
of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mis- 
take, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names 
of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir 
Kichard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beau- 
tified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such 
is a faithful description of this august and venerable 
relic; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERK.- 175 

contemplated Lis Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
Round Table the long-sought san-greal, with more exul- 
tation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. 
Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the inter- 
est it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, 
which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended 
from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of 
having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was 
held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being consid- 
ered very " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened 
by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth 
hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal de- 
scendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly roused 
from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, casting a 
knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head 
don't ache now that made that there article ! " 

The great importance attached to this memento of 
ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled 
me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so 
much as antiquarian research ; for I immediately per- 
ceived that this could be no other than the identical 
" parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, 
but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of 
course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of 
her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 

* Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dol- 
,t)hin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in 



176 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history liow the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to gener- 
ation. She also entertained me with many particulars 
concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- 
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of 
Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds 
of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to 
relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these 
matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one 
and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaif and his 
merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there 
are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still ex- 
tant among the oldest fi-equenters of the Mason's Arms, 
which they give as transmitted down from their fore- 
fathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose 
shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has 
several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the 
books, with which he makes his customers ready to die 
of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive med- 
itation. His head had declined a little on one side; a 
deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; 
and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, 

WMtsunweek, -when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a 
singing man at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing 
thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou 
deny it 1— Henry IV., Part 2. 



THE BOAB 'S HEAD TA VEBN. I77 

yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his 
moutli. I followed the direction of his eye through the 
door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on 
the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness 
before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my re- 
condite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from 
his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, 
putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and 
goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him, 
Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane ; 
— ^not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in the 
oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this 

interesting research, for which, if it jjrove too short and 

unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 

"branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present 

day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the 

immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 

touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising 

the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and 

Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers 

of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and 

little; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her 

pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to 

say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and 

whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, wath 

a neat foot and ankle ;) — the whole enlivened by the 
13 



178 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by tlie great fire of 
London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future 
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco- 
box, and the " parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus 
brought to light, the subjects of future engravings, and 
almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis- 
putes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland 
vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATUEE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY- 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought. 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummono of Hawthornden. 



HEEE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, 
in whicli we naturally steal away from noise 
and glare, and seek some quiet liaunt, where we 
may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undis- 
turbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old 
gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that lux- 
ury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an inter- 
ruption of madcap boys from Westminster School, play- 
ing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of 
the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering 
tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take re- 
fuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the 

179 



180 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of tlie vergers 
for admission to the library. He conducted me tlirough 
a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former 
ages, which opened upon a gloOmy passage leading to 
the chapter-house and the chamber in which doomsday 
book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small 
door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it 
was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if 
seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, 
and, passing through a second door, entered the library. 
I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a con- 
siderable height from the floor, and which apparently 
opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient 
picture of some reverend dignitary of tlie church in his 
robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and 
in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved 
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polem- 
ical writers, and were much more worn by time than 
use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table 
with two or three books on it, an inkstand without 
ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place 
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. 
It was buried deep among the massive walls of the 
abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. 1 
could only hear now and then the shouts of the school- 
boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. Igl 

a bell tolling for j^rajers, echoing soberly along the roofs 
of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew 
fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell 
ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through 
the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
bound in j)archment, with brass clasps, and seated my- 
self at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead 
of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn 
monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a 
train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the 
shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, 
I could not but consider the library a kind of literary 
catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously 
entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty 
oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some ach- 
ing head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepless 
nights ! How have their authors buried themselves in 
the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up 
from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of 
nature; and devoted themselves to painful research and 
intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch 
of dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read 
now and then in a future age, by some drowsy church- 
man or casual straggler like myself ; and in another age 



182 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of 
this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a 
local sound ; like the tone of that bell which has just 
tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment 
— lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away 
like a thing that was not. 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these 
unprofitable speculations with my head resting on my 
hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the 
quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, 
to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or 
three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then 
a husky hem ; and at length began to talk. At first 
its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much 
troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had 
woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold 
from long exposure to the chills and damps of the 
abbey. In a short time, however, it became more dis- 
tinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent con- 
versable little tome. Its language, to be sure, wag 
rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, 
in the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I 
shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in mod- 
ern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 183 

ttan two centuries. That tlie dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or 
two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. *' What a plague do they 
mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive 
was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean by 
keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, 
and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beau- 
ties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by 
the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and to 
be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the dean 
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if 
he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at 
any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- 
els ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left 
to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned 
to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- 
ing big, "I was written for all the world, not for the book- 
worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from 
hand to hand, like other great contemporary works ; but 
here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, 



184 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and miglit have silently fallen a j)rey to these worms that 
are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you 
had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a 
few last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to 
the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere 
this have been no more. To judge from your physiogno- 
my, you are now well stricken in years : very few of your 
contemporaries can be at present in existence ; and those 
few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself 
in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of liken- 
ing to harems, you might more properly and gratefully 
have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious 
establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, 
and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they 
often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. 
You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — 
where do we meet with their works ? what do we hear of 
E/obert Groteste, of Lincoln? No one could have toiled 
harder than he for immortality. He is said to have writ- 
ten nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the 
pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments 
are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely 
disturbed even by the antiquarian. "What do we hear of 
Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philoso- 
pher, theologian, and poet ? He declined two bishoprics, 
that he might shut himself up and write for posterity,' 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 185 

but posterity never inquires after Lis labors. What of 
Henry of Huntingdon, wlio, besides a learned history of 
England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, 
which the world has revenged by forgetting him ? "What 
is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his 
age in classical composition ? Of his three great heroic 
poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the 
others are known only to a feAV of the curious in litera- 
ture ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John 
Wallis, the Eranciscan, who acquired the name of the 
tree of life ? Of William of Malmsbury ; — of Simeon of 
Durham ; — of Benedict of Peterborough ; — of John Han- 

viU of St. Albans ;— of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
" how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin 
or Erench, so that they in a manner expatriated them- 
selves, and deserved to be forgotten ; * but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned 
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant 
English." 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to 
endite, and have many noble thinges fulfdde, but certes there ben some 
that speaken their poisye in French, of wliich speche the Frenclimcn have 
as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe.— 
Chaiicer's Testament of Love. 



180 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

(I should observe tliat these remarks were couched in 
such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite 
difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

"I cry your mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; 
but it matters little : almost all the writers of your time 
have likewise j^assed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's 
publications are mere literary rarities among book-col- 
lectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on 
which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been 
the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even 
back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 
who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* 
Even now many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English 
undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or 
fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of 
various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and in- 
termixtures. It is this which has made English litera- 
ture so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon 
it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to some- 
thing more permanent and unchangeable than such a 
medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing 
else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check 

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by deligent 
travel! of Geiiry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the 
Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Ber- 
rie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding 
that it never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen 
Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie 
learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the 
same, to their great praise and immortal commendation." 



TEE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 187 

upon tlie vanity and exultation of the most poi')ular 
writer. He finds the language in which he has embarked 
his fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapida- 
tions of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back 
and beholds the early authors of his country, once tho 
favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A 
few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and 
their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of 
the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the 
fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired 
in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the 
course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until it 
shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as 
an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Eunic inscriptions 
said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added 
I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich 
gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and 
weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, 
pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and re- 
flected that in one hundred years not one of them would 
be in existence ! " 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all 
the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a- 
days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately 
plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the- fine-spun eu- 
phuisms of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 



188 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

"Tliere you are again mistaken," said I; "tlie "vvriters 
whom you suppose in vogue, because tliey happened 
to be so when you were last in circulation, have long 
since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the 
immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his ad- 
mirers," and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, 
delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into 
obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings were 
once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated 
by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. 
A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled 
at the time, have likewise gone down, wdth all their 
writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of 
succeeding literature has rolled oyer them, until they 
are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that 
some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity 
brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this muta- 
bility of language a wise precaution of Providence for 
the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in 
particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold 

* Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the 
golden-pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that 
thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the 
honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale 
and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tonge of 
Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon ol 
excellency in print. — Harvey Pierce's Supererogation, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 189 

the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing 
up, flourisliing, adorning the fields for a short time, 
and then fading into dust, to make way for their suc- 
cessors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of na- 
ture would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The 
earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, 
and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like 
manner the works of genius and learning decline, and 
make way for subsequent productions. Language grad- 
ually varies, and with it fade away the writings of 
authors who have flourished their allotted time ; other- 
wise, the creative powers of genius would overstock 
the world, and the mind would be completely bewil- 
dered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly 
there were some restraints on this excessive multipli- 
cation. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which 
was a slow and laborious operation ; they were written 
either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one 
work was often erased to make way for another ; or 
on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perish- 
able. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, 
pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude 
of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was 
slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to mon- 
asteries. To these circumstances it may, in some meas- 
ure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the 
intellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought 
have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned 



190 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in tliQ deluge. But tlie inventions of paper and tlie 
press have put an end to all tliese restraints. Tliey 
have made eA-ery one a writer, and enabled every mind 
to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the 
whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarm- 
ing. The stream of literature has swollen into a tor- 
rent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A 
few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts 
constituted a great library; but what would you say 
to libraries such as actually exist, containing three or 
four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at 
the same time busy ; and the press going on with fear- 
fully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the 
number? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break 
out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has 
become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the 
mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Cri- 
ticism may do much. It increases with the increase of 
literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks 
on population spoken of by economists. All possible 
encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth 
of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; 
let criticism do what it may, writers will write, j^rint- 
ers will print, and the world will inevitably be over- 
stocked with good books. It will soon be the employ- 
ment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many 
a man of passable information, at the present day, reads 
scarcely anything but reviews ; and before long a man of 



TEE MUTABILITY OF LITERATUBE. 191 

erudition will be little better tlian a mere walking cata- 
logue." 

"My very good sir," said tlie little quarto, yawning 
most drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, 
but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would 
ask the fate of an author who was making some noise 
just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was 
considered quite temporary. The learned shook their 
heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, 
that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and 
had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. 
I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon 
sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very 
man that the literature of his period has experienced 
a duration beyond the ordinary term of English liter- 
ature. There rise authors now and then, who seem 
proof against the mutability of language, because they 
have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles 
of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that 
we sometimes see on the banks of a stream ; which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the 
mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations 
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from be- 
ing swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold 
up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless 
weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, 
whom we behold defying the encroachments of time, 



192 THE SKETCn-BOOR. 

retaining in modern nso tlie language and literature 
of liis day, and giving diiration to many an indificrcut 
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even ho, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming 
the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun hy a 
profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines 
and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds 
them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of 
laughter that had well nigh choked him, by reason of his 
excessive corpulency, "Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon 
as he could recover breath, " mighty w^ell ! and so you 
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be 
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man with- 
out learning ; by a poot, forsooth — a poet ! " And here 
lie wheezed forth another fit of laughter, 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having 
flourished in a less polished age, I determined, never- 
theless, not to give up my point. 

" Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writ- 
ers lie has the best chance for immortality. Others may 
write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and 
the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful 
portrayer of nature, whose features are always the same, 
and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous 
and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded with common- 



TEE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. I93 

places, and their tliouglits expanded into tediousness. 
But with, the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or 
brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest 
language. He illustrates them by every thing that he 
sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them 
by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before 
him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he 
lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small 
compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, 
which are thus transmitted in a* portable form to poster- 
ity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and re- 
quire now and then to be renewed, as in the case of 
Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the 
gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long 
reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, 
filled with monkish legends and academical controver- 
sies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! what dreary 
wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we be- 
hold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons 
on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to age." * 

* Thorow earth and waters dcepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse. 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hj^^e, 

13 



194 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I was just about to launch fortli into eulogiums upon 
tlie poets of tlie day, when the sudden opening of the 
door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who 
came to inform me that it was time to close the library. 
I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the 
worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps were closed : 
and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
passed. I have been to the library two or three times 
since, and have endeavored to draw it into further con- 
versation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I hav© 
never to this moment been able to discover. 

As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head 1 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As f arre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard, 



RUEAL FUNEEALS. 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night; 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

Tou were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

CVMBELrNB. 

MONG the beautiful and simple-hearted cus- 
toms of rural life which still linger in some 
parts of England, are those of strewing flowers 
before the funerals, and planting them at the graves of 
departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of 
some of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are 
of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the 
Greeks and Eomans, and frequently mentioned by their 
writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes 
of unlettered affection, originating long before art had 
tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on 
the monument. They are now only to be met with in the 
most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where 
fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, 
and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of 
the olden time. 

195 



196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, tlie bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to 
in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 

"White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- 
served in some of the remote villages of the south, at the 
funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. 
A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by 
a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is 
afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed 
seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes 
made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and insido 
of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are in- 
tended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the 
crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a 
kind of triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they 
have finished their course with joy, and are become con- 
querors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of 
the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, 
and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, 
of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the 
mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a dis- 



EURAL FUNERALS. I97 

tance, and to see tlie train slowly moving along tlie land- 
sea j)e. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodiU 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Hereick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to 
the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such 
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, 
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- 
proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then 
follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the 
grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, hav- 
ing paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
English character, and gives it some of its most touching 
and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pa- 
thetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the com- 
mon people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The 
humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while 
living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to 
his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the 
" faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, 
and all her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, 
to have store of flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." 



198 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a na- 
tion, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the 
grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and 
Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, de- 
scribing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
girl: 

When she sees a bank 

Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 

Her servants, what a pretty place it were 

To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 

Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep 
the turf uninjured, and about them were planted ever- 
greens and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says 
Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers and redolent plants, 
just emblems of the life of man, which has been com- 
pared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose 
roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." 
This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; 
but it may still be met with in the church-yards of retired 
villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an 
instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at 
the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been 
told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a 
young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants 
had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the 
body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 



BUBAL FUNEBALS. 199 

Ee noticed several graves wliicli had been decorated 
in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely 
stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon 
withered, and might be seen in various states of 
decay ; some drooping, others quite perished. They 
were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, 
and other evergreens ; which on some graves had gi'own 
to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb- 
stones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something 
in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended 
with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. 
"This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on a branch 
set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are nat- 
ural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and 
transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is 
not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and 
color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they 
were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities 
or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feel- 
ings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Cory- 
don's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he 
intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-color'd flowers, 

In token of good-will. 



200 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

And sundiy-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and j'ellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

Ill deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave 
of a yirgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in 
token of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black 
ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the 
survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in remem- 
brance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; 
but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of 
lowers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not alto- 
gether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the coun- 
ty of Surrey, "where the maidens yearly planted and 
decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose- 
bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britan- 
nia : " Here is also a certain custom, observed time out 
of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially 
by the young men and maids who have lost their loves ; 
so that this church-yard is now full of them." 

"When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as 
the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they 
were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by 



BUBAL FUNEBALS. 201 

Thomas Stanley, Esq. (publislied in 1651), is the follow- 
ing stanza. : 

Yet strew 

Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals 
of females who had been disappointed in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse. 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear. 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm. 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine 
and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the 
purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of 
thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral ob- 
servances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that none 
but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be em- 
ployed. The intention seems to have been to soften the 
horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding 
over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to asso- 
ciate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate 



202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal pro- 
cess going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kin- 
dred dust, which the imagination sinks from contemplat- 
ing; and we seek still to think of the form we have 
loved, with those refined associations which it awakened 
when blooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay 
her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May \'iolets spring I 

Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a 
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the 

living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers I 

May \irgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more 
prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; 



RURAL FUNERALS. 203 

but I Have already quoted more than is necessary. I 
cannot however refrain from giving a passage from Shak- 
speare, even though it should appear trite ; which illus- 
trates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these 
floral tributes ; and at the same time possesses that magic 
of language and appositeness of imagery for which he 
stands pre-eminent. 

"With fairest flowers, 
WhUst Slimmer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
jrompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the 
Host costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower 
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave 
as affection is binding the osier round the sod; but 
pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is 
chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly 
elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, 
and exists only in the most remote and insignificant vil- 
lages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns 
the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people 
grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poe- 
try, but they have learnt to check its fi'ee impulses, to 



204 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most 
affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and 
pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately 
and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made 
up of show and gloomy parade ; mourning carriages, 
mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourn- 
ers, who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave 
digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, 
and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies 
are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered 
no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is 
soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates 
and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the 
very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly 
fluctuating. But funerals in the country are solemnly 
impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in 
the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil 
uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell 
in every ear ; it steals with its pervading melancholy over 
hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most re- 
tired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. 
His idea is associated with every charm of nature ; we 
hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to 
awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once fre- 
quented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or 



RURAL FUNERALS. 205 

amidst the pensive beauty of tlie valley. In tlie fresh- 
ness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles 
and bounding gayety; and when sober evening returns 
with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call 
to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet- 
souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly slied ; 
Belov'd, tiU life can charm no more ; 

And mourn'd till laity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more imme- 
diately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their 
way to prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are 
softened by the exercises of devotion ; they linger about 
it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from 
worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from 
present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down 
among the solemn mementos of the past. In North 
Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of 
their deceased friends, for several Sundays after the in- 
terment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and plant- 
ing flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on 
Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season 
brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to 
mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest 
relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are em- 



206 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ployed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be 
deemed an insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, 
as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of 
love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is 
there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its 
superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal at- 
tachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and 
kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that 
is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The 
mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the 
charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering 
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is 
thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from 
every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to 
illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to 
heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we 
consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish 
and brood over in solitude. "Where is the mother who 
would willingly forget the infant that perished like a 
blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a 
pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget 
the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would for- 
get the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when 
the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most 



BUBAL FUNEBALS. 207 

loved ; when lie feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that 
must be bought by forgetfulness ? — ^No, the love which 
survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the 
soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and 
when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the 
gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and 
the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we 
most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on 
all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would 
root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may 
sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour 
of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of 
pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice 
from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remem- 
brance of the dead to which we turn even from the 
charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — It 
buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes 
every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none 
but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look 
down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a 
compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred 
with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering be- 
fore him. 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for 
meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review 
the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- 



208 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

sand endearments lavislied upon us almost unheeded in 
the daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we 
dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tender- 
ness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all 
its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, 
watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring 
love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh ! how thrill- 
ing ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering ac- 
cents, struggling in death to give one more assurance 
of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, 
turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! 
There settle the account with thy conscience for every 
past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unre- 
garded, of that departed being, who can never — never 
— never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow 
to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an 
affectionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast 
ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 
happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy 
kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast 
ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit 
that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, 
and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true 
heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; 
— then be sure that every unkind look, every ungra- 
cious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging 



BUBAL FUNEBAL8. 209 

back upon tliy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy, 
soul — tlien be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing 
and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, 
and pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, 
because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the 
beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken 
spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes 
of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy 
contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more 
faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to 
the living. 



In "writing the preceding article, it was not intended 
to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quota- 
tions illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by 
way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld. 
The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and 
this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual 
a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this 
custom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other 
countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much 
more general, and is observed even by the rich and fash- 
ionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to 
14 



210 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in 
Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and re- 
cesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves gener- 
ally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. 
He gives a casual picture of filial piety, which I cannot 
but transcribe ; for I trust it is as useful as it is delight- 
ful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When 
I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iff- 
land to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might 
trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, 
my attention was attracted by a young woman, who stood 
on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she 
anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. 
It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this af- 
fectionate daughter presented a monument more striking 
than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration 
that I once met with among the mountains of Switzer- 
land. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on 
the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount 
Eigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, 
shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible 
on the land side only by foot-paths. The whole force of 
the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; 
and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were 
from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its terri- 
tory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the 



RURAL FUNERALS. 211 

rest of tlie world, and retained the golden simplicity of a 
purer age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground 
adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed 
crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed minia- 
tures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at like- 
nesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung 
chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if 
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this 
scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- 
tion, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings 
of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
and more populous place, I should have suspected them 
to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived 
from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little 
of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the 
village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place 
dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the 
grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the 
most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was 
practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 

Falstafp, 




UEING a journey tliat I once made through 
the Netherlands, I arrived one evening at the 
Pomme cTOr, the principal inn of a small Flem- 
ish village. It was after the hour of the tahle d'hote, so 
that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the 
relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly; I 
was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining- 
room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect 
before me of a long dull evening, without any visible 
means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and re- 
quested something to read ; he brought me the whole 
literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an 
almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris 
newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, read- 
ing old and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed 
from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the 
continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of 
a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of trav- 
ellers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, 

213 



TEE INN KITCHEN. 213 

when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I tlirew 
aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, 
to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. 
It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived 
some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual 
attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated 
round a great burnished stove, that might have been 
mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. 
It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplend- 
ent brightness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge 
copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of 
light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in 
strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spa- 
cious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; 
except where they settled in mellow radiance on the 
broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back 
from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst 
of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden 
pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart 
suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 
Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I 
found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a 
little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and 
large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the 
end of each of which there was one of those bursts of hon- 
est unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in 
that temple of true liberty, an inn. 



214 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the store, and 
listened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extra- 
vagant, and most veiy dull. All of them, however, have 
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I 
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its 
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and tha 
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran trav- 
eller. He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling- 
jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of 
overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He 
was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair 
was light, and curled from under an old green velvet 
travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He was 
interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or 
the remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to 
replenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a 
roguish leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling 
in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding 
a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume 
de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his 
head cocked on one side, and the whimsical cut of the eye 
occasionally, as he related the following story. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 

He tliat supper for is dight, 

He Ij'es full cold, I trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir G rat-Steel, 



|N tlie summit of one of the heights of the Oden- 
wald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Ger- 
many, that lies not far from the confluence of 



the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years 
since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now 
quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech 
trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch- 
tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former pos- 
sessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look 
down upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the prop- 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will per- 
ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a 
little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 

f i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very pow- 
erful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compli- 
ment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 

315 



216 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

erty, and all tlie pride of his ancestors. Thongli the 
warlike disposition of his predecessors had much im- 
paired the family possessions, yet the baron still en- 
deavored to keep up some show of former state. The 
times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, 
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched 
like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built 
more convenient residences in the valleys : still the 
baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, 
cherishing, with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family 
feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his near- 
est neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened 
between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, 
when she grants but one child, always compensates by 
making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of 
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, 
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty 
in all Germany ; and who should know better than they ? 
She had, moreover, been brought uj) with great care un- 
der the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had 
spent some years of their early life at one of the little 
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of 
knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. 
Under their instructions she became a miracle of accom- 
plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories 
of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expres- 



TEE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 217 

sion in their countenances, that tliey looked like so 
many souls in purgatory. She could read without great 
difficulty, and had spelled her way through several 
church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of 
the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable pro- 
ficiency in writing ; could sign her own name without 
missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read 
it without spectacles. She excelled in making little ele- 
gant good-for-nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds ; 
was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; 
played a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and 
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by 
heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes 
in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be 
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of 
their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, 
and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. 
She was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went 
beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, 
or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to 
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as 
to the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such 
a distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless 
properly authorized, she would not have cast a glance 
upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he 
were even dying at her feet. 

The good effiacts of this system were wonderfully ap- 



218 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

parent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and 
correctness. While others were wasting their sweetn-ess 
in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and 
thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into 
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of 
those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing 
forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though 
all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, 
yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to 
the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
be provided with children, his household was by no 
means a small one ; for Providence had enriched him 
with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, 
possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble 
relatives ; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and 
took every possible occasion to come in swarms and en- 
liven the castle. All family festivals were commemorated 
by these good people at the baron's expense ; and when 
they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that 
there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family 
meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and 
it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being 
the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved 
to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose 
portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEOUOOM. 219 

he found no listeners equal to tliose that fed at his ex- 
pense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm 
believer in all those supernatural tales with which e^ery 
mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of 
his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to every 
tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never 
failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the 
hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Yon Landshort, 
the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little 
territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion 
that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost 
importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of 
the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on 
between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to 
unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their 
children. The preliminaries had been conducted with 
proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed 
without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed 
for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Al- 
tenburg had been recalled from the army for the pur- 
pose, and was actually on his way to the baron's to re- 
ceive his bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from "Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally de- 
tained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be 
expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him 



220 TEE SKETCE-BOOK. 

a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended 
her 4oilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advan- 
tage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; 
and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 
as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of 
expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost 
in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on 
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering 
around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to take great inter- 
est in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a 
world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, 
and in what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 
had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally 
a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain pas- 
sive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried 
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite 
anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their 
work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about 
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate 
as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 221 

yielded up wliole oceans of Rhein-ivein and Ferne-ioein ; 
and even tlie great Heidelburg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the dis- 
tinguished guest with Saus und Brans in the true spirit 
of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make 
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that 
had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of 
the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of 
the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, 
and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight 
of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he 
beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating from the 
valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number 
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along 
the road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of 
the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different 
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats 
began to flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer 
and dimmer to the view ; and nothing appeared stirring 
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from 
his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pur- 
suing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man 
travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken 
all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, 



222 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and a bride is "waiting for liim, as certainly as a dinner at 
the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtz- 
burg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had 
seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Star- 
kenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, 
of German chivalry, who was now returning from the 
army. His father's castle w^as not far distant from the 
old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud 
rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, 
and the count gave the whole history of his intended 
nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but 
of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing 
descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; 
and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from 
Wurtzburg at a nearly hour, the count having given di- 
rections for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of 
their military scenefj and adventures ; but the count was 
apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed 
charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of 
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely 
and thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the 
forests of Germany have always been as much infested 



TEE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 223 

by robbers as its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, 
tlie former were particularly numerous, from the hordes 
of disbanded soldiers wandering about tlie country. It 
■will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cava- 
liers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the 
midst of the forest. They defended themselves with 
bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's 
retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them 
the robbers fled, but not until the count had received 
a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed 
back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned 
from a neighboring convent, who was famous for hi^ 
skill in administering to both soul and body; but half 
of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the unfor- 
tunate count were numbered. 

"With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain 
the fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with 
his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he 
was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared 
earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily 
and courteously executed. " Unless this is done," said 
he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He re- 
peated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A 
request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesi- 
tation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calm- 
ness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave 
him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 



224 TUB SKETCH-BOOK. 

it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — = 
raved about liis bride — liis engagements — liis pliglited 
"word; ordered liis horse, that he might ride to the cas- 
tle of Landshort ; and expired in the fancied act of yault- 
ing into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on 
the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered 
on the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart 
was heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to pre- 
sent himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, 
and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their 
hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curios- 
ity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katz- 
enellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; 
for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there 
was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character 
that made him fond of nil singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrange- 
ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the 
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried 
in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illus- 
trious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the couni 
took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient 
for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and 
to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself 
on the watch-tower. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 225 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, 
which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no 
longer be postponed. The meats were already over- 
done ; the cook in an agony ; and the whole " house- 
hold had the look of a garrison that had been reduced 
by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. 
All were seated at table, and just on the point of 
commencing, when the sound of a horn from without 
the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. 
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle 
with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from 
the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future 
Bon-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger 
■was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, 
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, 
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately 
melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dig- 
nity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to 
consider it a want of proper respect for the important 
occasion, and the important family with which he was to 
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the 
conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience 
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 

attendants. 
15 



226 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of com- 
pliments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided 
himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger 
attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, 
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow 
on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they 
had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stran- 
ger was again about to speak, when he was once more 
interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the 
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. 
He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it 
seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and 
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts 
whispered something in her ear ; she made an effort to 
speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; gave a shy 
glance of inquiry on the stranger ; and was cast again to 
the ground. The words died away ; but there was a 
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of 
the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatis- 
factory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of 
eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not 
to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no 
time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and defer- 
red all particular conversation until the morning, and led 
the way to the untasted banquet. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 227 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the 
heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the tro- 
phies which they had gained in the field and in the 
chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, and 
tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan 
warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, 
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and 
a huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the 
head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or 
the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but 
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He con- 
versed in a low tone that could not be overheard — for the 
language of love is never loud ; but where is the female 
ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the 
lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in 
his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon 
the young lady. Her color came and went as she lis- 
tened with deep attention. Now and then she made 
some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, 
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic counte- 
nance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It 
was evident that the young couple were completely enam- 
ored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the myster- 
ies of the heart, declared that they had fallen in love 
with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 



228 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

guests were all blessed with tliose keen appetites that 
attend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron 
told his best and longest stories, and never had he told 
them so well, or with such great effect. If there was any- 
thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; 
and if any thing facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly 
in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great 
men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; 
it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- 
lent Hockheimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own 
table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many- 
good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that 
would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; 
many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost 
convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden 
aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained 
a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His counte- 
nance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening 
advanced ; and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's 
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. 
At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was 
a perturbed ancJ restless wandering of the eye that be- 
spoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with 
the bride became more and more earnest and mysteri- 
ous. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair seren- 



THE SPECTRE BRIBEGROOM. 229 

ity of her brow, and tremors to run througli lier tender 
frame. 

All this could not escape tlie notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of 
the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers 
and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs 
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh 
grew less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses in 
the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild 
tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story pro- 
duced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly 
frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- 
tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair 
Leonora ; a dreadful story, which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, 
and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise 
from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the 
baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a 
giaut. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a 
deep sigh/'and took a solemn farewell of the. company. 
They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly 
thunder-struck. 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, 
every thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber 
was ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri- 



230 THE SEETCn-BOOK. 

OTisly ; " I must lay my head in a different chamber to« 
niglit ! " 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in 
which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart mis- 
give him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hos- 
pitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at 
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, 
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were 
absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear 
stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the 
earth, and snorting with impatience. — ^When they had 
reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly 
lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed 
the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted 
roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to 
you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indis- 
pensable engagement — " 

" Why," said the baron, " cannot you send scwne one in 
your place ? " 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person 
— I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

" Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, " but not 
until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride 
there." 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 231 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemni- 
ty, " my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the 
worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain 
by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I 
am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must 
keep my appointment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in 
the whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost conster- 
nation, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted 
outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted 
with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this 
might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. 
Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of 
other supernatural beings, with which the good people of 
Germany have been so grievously harassed since time 
immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to sug- 
gest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young 
cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice 
seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, 
however, drew on him the indignation of the whole com- 
pany, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him 
as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to ab^ 
jure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the 
faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, 
they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 



232 TUE SKETCHBOOK. 

day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of 
the young count's murder, and his interment in Wurtz- 
burg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who 
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of aban- 
doning him in his distress. They wandered about the 
courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their 
heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of 
so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate 
and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up 
their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride 
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if the 
very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must 
have been the living man. She filled the house with 
lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her 
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt,, who 
was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Ger- 
many, had just been recounting one of her longest, and 
had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber 
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece 
lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as 
they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the 
lattice. The castle-clock had just tolled midnight, when 
a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 233 

hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. 
A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As 
it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the 
countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre 
Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon 
her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the 
music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell 
into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had 
disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. 
As to the young lady, there was something, even in the 
spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was 
still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the 
shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
ajffections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is 
not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared 
she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, 
for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that 
she would sleep in no other in the castle : the conse- 
quence was, that she had to sleep in it alone : but she 
drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of 
the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melan- 
choly pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the 
chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept 
its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed thig 
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the 



234 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to 
tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the 
neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, 
that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she 
was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by in- 
telligence brought to the breakfast table one morning 
that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was 
open, and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received, can only be imagined by those who 
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a 
great man cause among his friends. Even the poor rela- 
tions paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of 
the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been struck 
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, " The 
goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the 
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have car- 
ried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated 
the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a 
horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and 
had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
were struck with the direful probability ; for events of 
the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many 
well authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 285 

baron! What a heart -rending dilemma for a fond 
father, and a member of the great family of Katzen- 
ellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt 
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-de- 
mon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin 
grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, 
and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered 
to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen 
of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn 
on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about 
to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, 
■when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A 
lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- 
frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped 
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the 
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daugh- 
ter, and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The 
baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then 
at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his 
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his 
appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. His 
dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly 
symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His 
fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and 
joy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, 
in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was 
on goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Stark- 



236 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

enfaust. He related liis adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the 
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron 
had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. 
How the sight of the bride had completely captivated 
him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had 
tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had 
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent 
retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested 
his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of 
the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had 
haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window — 
had w^ooed — had won — had borne away in triumph — and, 
in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal author- 
ity, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he 
loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he 
rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though her husband 
was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a 
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, 
that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict 
veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him 
of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, 
who had served in the wars, assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier 
was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served 
as a trooper. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 237 

Matters, therefore, were liappily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at 
the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed 
this new member of the family with loving kindness ; he 
was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it 
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of 
strict seclusion, and passive obedience should be so badly 
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in 
not having the windows grated. One of them was partic- 
ularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, 
and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly hapjDy 
at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so 
the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY„ 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster liow there resorts 
Living in brasse or stouey monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke ui)on olTcnselesse majestj', 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicilie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

CuRisTOLERo's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 



|N one of those sober and ratlier melancholy 

days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the 

shadows of morning and evening almost mingle 

together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, 

I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster 

Abbey. There was something congenial to the season 

in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I 

passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the 

regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades 

of former ages. 

238 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 239 

I entered from tlie inner court of Westminster School, 
through a long, Ioav, vaulted passage, that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by 
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this 
dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with 
the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving 
along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre 
from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the 
abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
the mind for its solemn contem2)lation. The cloisters 
still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of for- 
mer days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and 
crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered 
over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and ob- 
scured the death's heads, and other funereal emblems. 
The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty; every thing bears 
marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet 
has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into 
the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot 
of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the 
vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From 
between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue 
sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles 
of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 



240 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- 
deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, 
which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye 
was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but 
nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. 
They were the efiigies of three of the early abbots ; the 
epitaphs were entirely efiaced ; the names alone re- 
mained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. 
(Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 
1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some 
little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, 
thus left like v/recks upon this distant shore of time, tell- 
ing no tale but that such beings had been, and had per- 
ished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride 
which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to 
live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these 
faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will 
cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
upon these grave-stones, I was roused by the sound of 
the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, 
and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling 
to hear this warning of departed time sounding among 
the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like 
a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pur- 
sued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the 
vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 241 

clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arclies 
springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance 
in comparison with his own handiwork. The spacious- 
ness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound 
and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly 
about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of 
the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, 
and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sen- 
sible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses 
down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into 
noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded 
by the congregated bones of the great men of past 
times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the 
earth with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
human ambition, to see how they are crowded together 
and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed 
in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little 
portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms 
could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, 
and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of 
the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few 
short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages 
of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies 

an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the 
16 



242 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

abbey. The monuments are generally simple ; for the 
lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the 
sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected 
to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, 
medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have al- 
ways observed that the visitors to the abbey remained 
longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes 
place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the 
great and the heroic. They linger about these as about 
the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there 
is something of companionship between the author and 
the reader. Other men are known to posterity only 
through the medium of history, which is continually 
growing faint and obscure : but the intercourse be- 
tween the author and his fellow-men is ever new, ac- 
tive, and immediate. He has lived for tliem more than 
for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, 
and shut himself up from the delights of social life, 
that he might tlie more intimately commune with dis- 
tant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cher- 
ish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds 
of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of 
pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory; 
for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and 
sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright 
gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 243 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards tliat 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the 
kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but 
which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of 
the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious 
name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house re- 
nowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky 
chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effi- 
gies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others 
stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed 
together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; 
prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes 
and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over 
this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form 
is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were tread- 
ing a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had 
been suddenly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemj)late a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on 
one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplica- 
tion upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the 
morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's 
having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb 
of a crusader ; of one of those military enthusiasts, who 
so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact and fic- 
tion; between the history and the fairy tale. There is 
something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these 



244 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

adventurers, decorated as they are witli rude armorial 
bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the 
antiquated chapels in which they are generally found; 
and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle 
with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the 
chivalrous pomp and pageantry, w^hich poetry has spread 
over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the 
relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings passed from 
recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours 
have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange 
and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, 
and about which all our conceptions are vague and vision- 
ary. There is something extremely solemn and awful 
in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the 
sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. 
They have an eEeci infinitely more impressive on my 
feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over -wrought 
conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern 
monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superi- 
ority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There 
was a noble way, in former times, of saying things sim- 
ply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an 
epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family 
worth and honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of 
a noble house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all 
the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a 
monument which is among the most renowned achieve- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 245 

ments of modern art ; but which to me appears horrible 
rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 
by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- 
sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted 
skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from its 
fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. 
She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who 
strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. 
The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit ; we 
almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph burst- 
ing from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why 
should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those 
we love? The grave should be surrounded by every 
thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for 
the dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It is 
the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and 
meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of 
busy existence from without occasionally reaches the 
ear ; — the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur 
of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleas- 
ure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose 
around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and 
beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, 



246 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

and from chapel to cliapel. Tlie day was gradually wear- 
ing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey 
grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was 
summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance 
the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle 
and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to 
Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to 
it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. 
Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn 
heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to ad- 
mit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous 
of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of ar- 
chitecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured de- 
tail. The very walls are wrought into universal orna- 
ment, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, 
crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone 
seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been 
robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if 
by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonder- 
ful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with 
the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On 
the pinnacles of the stalls are afiixed the helmets and 
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and 
above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 247 

gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork 
of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the 
whole surrounded by a superbly- wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; thia 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems 
of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos 
which show the dust and oblivion in which all must 
sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind 
with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the 
silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and 
their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous 
banners that were once borne before them, my imagina- 
tion conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with the 
splendor of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with 
the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring mul- 
titude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had 
settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the 
casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into 
the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and 
pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion- 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the 
world, some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms 
in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more dis- 
tinction in this mansion of sliadowy lienors : the melan- 
choly reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave ; which 
"brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, 
and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. 
In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the 
other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of 
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 
sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 
heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where 
Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through 
windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the 
place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and 
tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is 
stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, 
much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the this- 
tle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest 
myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the cheq- 
uered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the 
abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant 
voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the 
faint responses of the choir j these paused for a time, and 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 249 

all was liuslied. The stillness, the desertion and obscu- 
rity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper 
and more solemn interest to the place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation. 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion. 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst 
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled in- 
tensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. 
How well do their volume and grandeur accord with 
this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell 
through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony 
through these caves of death, and make the silent sepul- 
chre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph and acclama- 
tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, 
and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and 
the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes 
of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, 
and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure 
airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrill- 
ing thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it 
forth upon the soul. "What long-drawn cadences ! What 
solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more 
dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to 
jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are 



250 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — 
it is rising from tlie earth to heaven — the very soul seems 
rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of 
harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows 
of evening were gradually thickening round me ; the 
monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and 
the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning 
day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I de- 
scended the flight of steps which lead into the body of 
the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward 
the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that 
conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 
this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon 
a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres 
of various kings and queens. From -this eminence the 
eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to 
the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; 
where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie 
mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me 
stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 
in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The 
scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical arti- 
fice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was 
a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and 
power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 251 

to tlie sepulchre. Would not one think that these incon- 
gruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson 
to living greatness ? — to shgw it, even in the moment of 
its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which 
it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which encir- 
cles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the 
dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon 
by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange 
to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. 
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there 
are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illus- 
trious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility 
which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the 
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains de- 
spoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been 
stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the 
effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal 
monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive 
is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; some 
mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and insult — all 
more or less outraged and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
through the painted windows in the high vaults above 
me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped 
in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles 
grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded 
into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments as- 



252 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening 
breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of 
the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- 
ersing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and 
dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's 
walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, 
the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled 
the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they 
were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. 
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded 
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot 
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast 
assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; 
a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the 
empire of death ; his great shadowy palace, where he sits 
in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and 
spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of 
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality 
of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; 
we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to 
think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be 
speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero 
of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, 
be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Our 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 253 

fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in 
our short memories, and sadly tell ns how we may be bur- 
ied in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact be- 
comes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscrip- 
tion moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from the 
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but 
heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written 
in the dust ? "What is the security of a tomb, or the per- 
petuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander 
the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty 
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. 
"The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath 
spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, 
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers 
above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? 
The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now 
spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; 
when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the 
wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the 
owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the gairish sun- 
beam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, 
and the \\j twine round the fallen column ; and the fox- 
glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in 
mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name 
perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a 
tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruimf 

* Sir T. Brown. f For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his 
good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot 
have more of him. Hue and Cky after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for gi-eat and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

TVTien this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

OTHING in England exercises a more delight- 
ful spell over my imagination, than the linger- 
ings of the holiday customs and rural games of 
former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to 
draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew 
the world through books, and believed it to be all that 
popts had painted it ; and they bring with them the 
flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, 
with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more 
homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret 
to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, 

354 



CHRISTMAS. 255 

being gradually worn away by time, but still more oblit- 
erated by modern fashion. They resemble those pic- 
turesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see 
crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilap- 
idated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the addi- 
tions and alterations of later days. Poetiy, however, 
clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game 
and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of 
its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the 
Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support, by clasping together their tottering re- 
mains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends 
with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of 
hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the 
church about this season are extremely tender and in- 
spiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin 
of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and 
pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of 
music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir 
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile 
with triumphant harmony. 



256 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days 
of yore, that tliis festival, which commemorates the an- 
nouncement of the religion of peace and love, has been 
made the season for gathering together of family connec- 
tions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred 
hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the 
world are continually operating to cast loose ; of calling 
back the children of a family, who have launched forth 
in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to as- 
semble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of 
the affections, there to grow young and loving again 
among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other 
times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the 
mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and 
dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we 
" live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the 
murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, 
the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and 
heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy mag- 
nificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and 
we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the 
depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every 
charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we 
turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- 
ness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy 



CHRISTMAS. 257 

days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our 
wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleas- 
ure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concen- 
trated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. "We feel 
more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
brought more closely together by dependence on each 
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we 
draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kind- 
ness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and 
which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element 
of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial sum- 
mer and sutishine through the room, and lights up each 
countenance in a kindlier welcome. "Where does the hon- 
est face of hospitality expand into a broader and more 
cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more 
sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as 
the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the 
hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the case- 
ment, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be 
more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered 
security, with which we look round upon the comforta- 
ble chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond 
17 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of those festivals and holidays which agreeably Interrupt 
the stillness of country life ; and they were, in former 
days, particularly observant of the religious and social 
rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry 
details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint 
humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- 
donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this 
festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every 
door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant 
and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one 
warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls 
of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp 
and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned 
under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- 
tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations 
of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays 
through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the 
latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, 
beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft- 
told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing eflfects of modern refinement 
is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday 
customs. It has completely taken off the sharp toucli- 
ings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, 
and has worn down society into a more smooth and pol- 
ished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many 
of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely 
disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, 



CHRISTMAS. 259 

are become matters of speculation and dispute among 
commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit 
and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heart- 
ily and vigorously ; times wild and picturesque, which 
have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and 
the drama with its most attractive variety of characters 
and manners. The world has become more worldly. 
There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. 
Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower 
stream ; and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet 
channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom 
of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- 
ened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong 
local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fire- 
side delights. The traditionary customs of golden- 
hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly 
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial cas- 
tles and stately manor-houses in which they were cele- 
brated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the 
great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are 
unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing- 
rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive hon- 
ors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in 
England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling com- 
pletely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every 
English bosom. The preparations making on every side 
for the social board that is again to unite friends and 



260 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing and repass- 
ing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feel- 
ings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have 
the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, 
and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of 
the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon 
the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of per- 
fect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that 
still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep falleth upon 
man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, con- 
necting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
almost fancied them into another celestial choir, an- 
nouncing peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon 
by these moral influences, turns every thing to melody 
and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard some- 
times in the profound repose of the country, " telling the 
night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the 
common people to announce the approach of this sacred 

festival. 

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The ni'ghts are wholesome — then no j^lanets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 



CHRISTMAS. 261 

spirits, and stir of the affections, wliicli prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, 
the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kind- 
ling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the 
genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit; as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the 
weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though 
for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship 
welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of 
the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of 
those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like 
the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright with 
smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror 
transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever- 
shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away 
from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and 
can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness 
when all around is joyful, may have his moments of 
strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants 
the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH. 

Omne benu 

Sine pcEiia 
Teinpus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 




N the preceding paper I have made some gen- 
eral observations on the Christmas festivities 
of England, and am tempted to illustrate them 
by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; 
in perusing which I would most courteously invite my 
reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put 
on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, 
and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 
for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the 
day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both 
inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, 
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations 
or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded 
also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of de- 
licacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about 

263 



TEE STAGE COACH. 2G3 

the coacliman's box, presents from distant friends for tlie 
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for 
my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health 
and manly spirit which I have observed in the children 
of this country. They were returning home for the holi- 
days in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans 
of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they w^ere 
to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the 
abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family 
and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the 
joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents 
with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meet- 
ing to which they seemed to look forward with the great- 
est impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a 
pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more vir- 
tues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How 
he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as 
he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole coun- 
try that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not 
but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and im- 
portance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on 
one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens 



264 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

stuck ill the button-liole of his coat. He is always a 
j^ersonage full of mighty care and business, but he is 
particularly so during this season, having so many com- 
missions to execute in consequence of the great inter- 
change of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch 
that may serve as a general representation of this very 
numerous and important class of functionaries, who have 
a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to them- 
selves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, 
wherever an English stage coachman may be seen, he 
cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding 
into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly di- 
mensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his 
bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, 
in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one 
reaching to his heels. He wears a broad - brimmed, 
low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief 
aboiit his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at 
the bosom; and has in summer time a large bouquet 
of flowers in his button-hole ; the present, most prob- 
ably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is 
commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small 
clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of 
jockey boots which reach about half way up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; 



THE STAGE COACH. 265 

he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent ma- 
terials ; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of 
his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness 
and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an 
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consid- 
eration along the road ; has frequent conferences with 
the village housewives, who look upon him as a man 
of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have 
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country 
lass. The moment he .arrives where the horses are 
to be changed he throws' • down the reins with some- 
thing of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive from one 
stage to another. When off the box, his hands are 
thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls 
about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute 
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an ad- 
miring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and 
those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, 
and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the 
privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen 
and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up 
to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; 
echo his opinions about horses and other topics of 
jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his 
air and carriage. Every ragamufl&n that has a coat to 
his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his 
gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 



266 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Perhaps it miglit be owing to tlie pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw 
cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the jour- 
ney. A stage coach, however, carries animation always 
with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. 
The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces 
a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; 
some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, 
and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave 
of the groujp that accompanies them. In the mean 
time, the coachman has a world of small commissions 
to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; 
sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the 
door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing 
leer and words of sly import. Lands to some half-blush- 
ing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux 
from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through 
the village, every one runs to the -window, and you have 
glances on every side of fresh country faces and bloom- 
ing giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos 
of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations 
there for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; 
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to 
whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of 
much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel 
in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the cyclops 
round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and 
suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in 



THE STAGE CO ACE. 267 

brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on tlie 
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine 
to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the 
murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a 
more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed 
to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. 
Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in 
brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers', 
and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The 
housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their 
dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, 
with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the 
windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's 
account of Christmas preparations : — " Now capons and 
hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of 
people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and 
spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by 
the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on 
Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, 
whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and 
cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, 
he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by 



268 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a shout from my little travelling companions. They had 
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few 
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they ap- 
proached home, and now there was a general burst of 
joy — " There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's 
Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their 
hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking 
servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied 
by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Ban- 
tam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and 
long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road- 
side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited 
him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged 
the pointer ; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest ; all wanted to 
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others holding 
John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering 
him with questions about home, and with school anec- 
dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do 
not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated; 
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had 



TEE STAGE COACH. 269 

neitter known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the 
summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 
afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our 
route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat 
country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a 
lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my 
little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop- 
ing along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great 
gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rous- 
ing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, 
and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of con- 
venience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the 
kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimen- 
sions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- 
ished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas 
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were sus- 
pended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless 
clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one 
corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one 
side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other 
hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards 
of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior 
order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while 
others sat. smoking and gossiping over their ale on two 



270 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim house- 
maids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the 
directions of a fresh, bustling landlady ; but still seizing 
an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and 
have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. 
The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea 
of the comforts of mid-winter : 

No.w trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast. 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, 
and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a 
countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward 
to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was 
not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly 
good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once tra- 
velled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cor- 
dial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, 
odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these 
in a transient interview at an inn was impossible ; and 
finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely 

* Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



THE STAGE COACH. 271 

making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay 
at a few miles distance. "It is better than eating a soli- 
tary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old- 
fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must 
confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity 
and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient 
of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his 
invitation : the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few 
moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the 
Bracebridges. 



CHEISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Beneclight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight' 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

T was a brilliant moonliglit niglit, but extremely 
cold ; our cliaise wliirled rapidly over tlie fro- 
zen ground; tlie postboy smacked his whip 
incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a 
gallop. "He knows where he is going," said my com- 
panion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time for 
some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of 
the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up 
something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable 
specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in 
its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our 
men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and 
fashion is carried so much into the country, that the 

273 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 273 

strong ricli peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost 
polished away. My father, however, from early years, 
took honest Peacham* for his text-book, instead of 
Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that there 
was no condition more truly honorable and enviable 
than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, 
and therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. 
He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old 
rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read 
in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on 
the subject. Indeed his favorite range of reading is 
among the authors who flourished at least two centuries 
since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true 
Englishmen than any of their successors. He even re- 
grets sometimes that he had not been born a few centu- 
ries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar 
manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from 
the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most en- 
viable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity 
of indulging the bent of his own humor without molesta- 
tion. Being representative of the oldest family in the 
neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his 
tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is 
known simply by the appellation of 'The Squire ;' a titl« 
which has been accorded to the head of the family since 

* Pcacham's Complete Gentleman, 1633. 
18 



274 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

time immemorial. I think it best to give you tliese hints 
about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any ec- 
centricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in 
a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully 
wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge 
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted 
by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's 
lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried 
in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which re- 
sounded through the still frosty air, and was answered 
by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion- 
house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately 
appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly 
upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, 
dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat ker- 
chief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from 
under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying 
forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they 
could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a 
song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, w^hile the chaise should follow on. Our road 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 275 

wound througli a noble avenue of trees, among the naked 
branches of which the moon glittered, as she rolled 
through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn be- 
yond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which 
here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a 
frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin 
transparent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds and 
threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : — 
"How often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, 
on returning home on school vacations ! How often have 
I played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree 
of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who 
have cherished us in childhood. My father was always 
scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us 
around him on family festivals. He used to direct and 
superintend our games with the strictness that some par- 
ents do the studies of their children. He was very par- 
ticular that we should play the old English games ac- 
cording to their original form ; and consulted old books 
for precedent and authority for every 'merrie disport;' 
yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. 
It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his 
children feel that home was the happiest place in the 
world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of 
the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs 
of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and 



276 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hound, and cnrs of low degree," that, disturbed by the 
ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, 
came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me 1 " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, 
the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 
moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by 
the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of 
some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of 
different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, 
with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and 
overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the 
small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the 
moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 
taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ances- 
tors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. 
The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubber- 
ies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, orna- 
mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of 
water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely 
careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original 



CHRISTMAS EVR 277 

state. He admired this fasliion in gardening ; it had an 
air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature 
in modern gardening had sprung up with modern repub- 
lican notions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- 
ment; it smacked of the levelling system — I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into garden- 
ing, though I expressed some apprehension that I should 
find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only 
Instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle 
with politics ; and he believed that he had got this no- 
tion from a member of parliament who once passed a few 
weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument 
to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, 
•which had been occasionally attacked by modern land- 
scape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must pro- 
ceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of rev- 
elry was permitted, and even encouraged by the squire, 
throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every 
thing was done conformably to ancient usage. Here 
were kept up ihe old games of hoodman blind, shoe the 
wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, 
and snap dragon: the Yule clog and Christmas candle 
were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white 



278 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

berries, hung up, to tlie imminent peril of all the pretty 
housemaids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons ; 
one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab- 
sence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. 
The squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gentleman, 
with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid coun- 
tenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the advan- 
tage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might dis- 
cover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit 
us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at 
once to the company, which was assembled in a large old- 
fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches 
of a numerous family connection, where there were the 
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming coun- 
try cousins, half -fledged striplings, and bright -eyed 
boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; 
some at a round game of cards ; others conversing around 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christ- 
mas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under 
it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked, the privilege ceases. 



CHEISTMAS EVE. 279 

the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the 
young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more ten- 
der and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; 
and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and 
tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop 
of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a 
happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a 
peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 
the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had cer- 
tainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently en- 
deavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. 
Over the heavy projecting fireplace w.as suspended a pic- 
ture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, 
and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and 
lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were in- 
serted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on 
which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the cor- 
ners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, 
and other sporting implements. The furniture was of 
the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some 
articles of modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole pre- 
sented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst 
of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and 



280 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sending forth a vast volume of light and teat : this I 
understood was the Yule clog, which the squire was par- 
ticular in having brought in and illumined on a Christ- 
mas eve, according to ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of 
his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a 
system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. 
Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly 
up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, 
and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness 

* Tlie Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in 
the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it 
lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- 
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule 
clog was to burn all night ; if it went out, it was considered a eign of 
ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free. 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions con- 
nected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the 
house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill 
omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away 
to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 281 

and protection. There is an emanation from the heart 
in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at 
his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the 
comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I 
found myself as much at home as if I had been one of 
the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It 
was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels 
of which shone with wax, and around which were several 
family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides 
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed 
on a highly-polished beaufet among the family plate. 
The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; 
but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish 
made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich sj^ices, 
being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the 
retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly 
orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my pre- 
dilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith 
we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by 
the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Brace- 
bridge always addressed with the quaint appellation of 
Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with 
the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 



282 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

like the bill of a parrot ; liis face slightly pitted witli the 
small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost- 
bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of ex- 
pression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit 
of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuen- 
does with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by 
harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ig- 
norance of the family chronicles did not permit me to en- 
Joy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to 
keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her 
mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the 
younger part of the company, who laughed at every thing 
he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance ; I 
could not wonder at it, for he must have been a miracle of 
accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch 
and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the as- 
sistance of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief ; and cut 
an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young 
folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- 
bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent 
income, which, by careful management, was sufficient for 
all his wants. He revolved through the family system 
like a vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting 
one branch, and sometimes another quite remote ; as 
is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connections 



CHRISTMAS EYE. 283 

and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping 
buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present mo- 
ment ; and his frequent change of scene and company 
prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating 
habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably 
charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being 
Tersed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of 
the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all 
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among 
whom he was habitually considered rather a young 
fellow, and he was master of the revels among the 
children; so that there was not a more popular being 
in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Brace- 
bridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely 
with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with 
his humor in respect to old times, and by having a 
scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had 
presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for 
no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and 
other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than 
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas 
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, 
with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no 
means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a fal- 
setto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
quaint old ditty. 



284: TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an 
old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where 
he had been strumming all the evening, and to all ap- 
pearance comforting himself with some of the squire's 
home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, 
of the establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident 
of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond 
of the sound of '^ harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 
one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire 
himself figured down several couple with a partner, with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be 
a kind of connecting link between the old times and the 
new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of 
his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his 
dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel 
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- 
ing girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, 
kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all 



CHRISTMAS EYE. 285 

tis sober attempts at elegance: — sucli are tlie ill-as- 
sorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfor- 
tunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one 
of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- 
sand little knaveries with impunity : he was full of prac- 
tical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and 
cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni- 
versal favorite among the women. The most interesting 
couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of 
the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of 
the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness grow- 
ing up between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was 
just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, 
slender, and handsome, and, like most young British 
officers of late years, had picked up various small accom- 
plishments on the continent — he could talk French and 
Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — dance di- 
vinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Water- 
loo : — what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and 
romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and per- 
fection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a gui- 
tar, and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an 
attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, 
began the little French air of the Troubadour. The 
squire, however, exclaimed against having any thing on 



286 ^SE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Christmas eve but good old English ; upon which the 
young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in 
an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with 
a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's *' Night-Piece 
to Julia." 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 

The shooting stars attend thee. 
And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow 

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to alTright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber. 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light. 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner 
was called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of 
any such application, for she never looked at the singer, 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 287 

but tept lier eyes cast upon tlie floor. Her face was Buf- 
fused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a 
gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless 
caused by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so great was 
her indifference, that she amused herself with plucking 
to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by 
the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins 
on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed 
through the hall, on my w ay to my chamber, the dying 
embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and 
had it not been the season when " no spirit dares stir 
abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from 
my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might 
not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated 
in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with 
cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of 
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the 
walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, wdth 
a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow win- 
dow. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. 
I listened, and found it proceeded from a baud, which I 
concluded to be the waits from some neighboring village. 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

They went round the house, playing under the windows. 
I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. 
The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the case- 
ment, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. 
The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 
aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moon- 
light. I listened and listened — they became more and 
more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died 
away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 
******* 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant he. 

Herkick:. 



HEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if 
all the events of the preceding evening had 
been a dream, and nothing but the identity 
of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. 
While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of 
little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering 
consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted 
forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a 
19 289 



290 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and love- 
ly as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, 
and singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden ap- 
pearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They 
remained for a moment playing on their lips with their 
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from 
under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 
scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gal- 
lery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feel- 
ings in this strong -hold of old-fashioned hospitality. 
The window of my chamber looked out upon what in 
summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There 
was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of 
it, and n track of park beyond, with noble clumj)S of 
trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat ham- 
let, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging 
over it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer ; but 
the morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the 
preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and 
covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its 
fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun 
had a dazzling efiect among the glittering foliage. A 
robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung 
its clusters of red berries just before my window, waa 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 291 

basking liimself in tlie sunshine, and piping a few queru- 
lous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories 
of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of * 
a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant ap- 
peared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me 
the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, 
where I found the j^rincipal part of the family already 
assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, 
hassocks, and large prayer-books; the servants were 
seated on benches below. The old gentleman read pray- 
ers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon 
acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do 
him the Justice to say that he acquitted himself with 
great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of 
his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to 
an old church melody by Master Simon. As there were 
several good voices among the household, the effect was 
extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by 
the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feel- 
ing, with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza ; 
his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the 
bounds of time and tune : 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
With guiltlesse mirth, 



292 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the 
year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of 
the family. It was once almost universally the case at 
the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is 
much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neg- 
lect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the 
order and serenity prevalent in those households, where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every tem- 
per for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter 
lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, 
which he censured as among the causes of modern effem- 
inacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English 
heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to 
suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave dis- 
play of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by e\ery body but the squire. We were escorted 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 293 

by a imm"ber of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers 
about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race 
that had been in the family time out of mind ; they were 
all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Si- 
mon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols 
would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he 
carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not 
but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal 
terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew- 
trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under 
a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to 
the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I 
must say a muster of peacocks. "In the same way," 
added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight 
of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of 
wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both un- 
derstanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will pres- 
ently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent 
you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at 



294 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the fall of the leaf, wlien his tail falletb, he will mourn 
aud hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it 
was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 
tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea- 
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall; for 
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great 
favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to 
keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to chiv- 
alry, and were in great request at the stately banquets 
of the olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp 
and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, 
had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 
perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, 
who were to perform some music of his selection. There 
was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow 
of animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had 
been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from au- 
thors who certainly were not in the range of every-day 
reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank 
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master 
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some 
half a dozen old authors, which the squire had put into 
his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he 
had a studious fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, 



CERLSTMA8 DA Y. 295 

or a long ■^•mter eTeninp Sir Anthony Fitziierbert's 
Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country Contentments ; 
the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne; 
Knight ; Izaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more 
such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard 
authorities ; and, like all men who know but a few books, 
he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted 
them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly 
picked out of old books in the squire's library, and 
adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice 
spirits of the last century. His practical application of 
scraps of literature, howeyer, had caused him to be 
looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood- 
While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of 
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a lit- 
tle particular in haying his household at church on a 
Christmas morning ; considering it a day of pouring out 
of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

"At Christmas be merry, and thankful wifhal. 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my 
cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church 
is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from 
the village amateurs, and established a musical club 



296 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for their improvement; lie has also sorted a choir, as 
he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the 
directions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Content- 
ments ; for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, sol- 
emn mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouths,' 
among the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' 
he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest 
lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he af- 
firms, are the most difficult to keep in tune ; your pretty 
female singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, 
and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine 
and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, 
which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood 
near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. 
Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed 
coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly 
matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against 
its walls, through the dense foliage of which, apertures 
had been formed to admit light into the small antique 
lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a 
ricS patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson 
was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled 
wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear ; so 
that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like 



CHBISTMAS DAT. 297 

a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with 
great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and prayer-book: and his small legs 
seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, 
decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had re- 
ceived this living shortly after the latter had come to 
his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and 
would scarcely read a work printed in the Eoman char- 
acter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde 
•were his delight; and he was indefatigable in his re- 
searches after such old English writers as have fallen 
into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, 
perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had 
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and 
holiday customs of former times ; and had been as zeal- 
ous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; 
but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which 
men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, 
merely because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to 
its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the 
wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. 
He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that 
they seemed to have been reflected in his countenance ; 
which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might 
be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson 



298 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having tised mis- 
tletoe among the greens with which the church was deco- 
rated. It was, lie observed, an unholy plant, j)rofaned by 
having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremo- 
nies ; and though it might be innocently employed in the 
festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been 
deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and 
totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on 
this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down 
a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before 
the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; 
on the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- 
bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in ar- 
mor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a 
crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had 
signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose 
picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind 
of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- 
man of the old school, and a man of old family connec- 
tions. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of a 
folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly 
to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of 
his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 299 

he was evidently most solicitous about tlie musical part 
of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, 
and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the 
village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead 
and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to 
liave blown his face to a point ; and there was another, 
a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, 
so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three 
pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy 
tint ; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been 
chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than 
looks ; and as several had to sing from the same book, 
there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country 
tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then 
making up for lost time by travelling over a passage 
with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than 
the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the 
great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and 
arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded 



300 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the 
very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Si- 
mon was in a fever; every thing went on lamely and 
irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning " Now 
let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal 
for parting company: all became discord and confusion; 
each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, 
rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister 
in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a 
long sonorous nose, who happened to stand a little apart, 
and, being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a 
quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, 
and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars, 
duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of ob- 
serving it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of 
rejoicing ; supporting the correctness of his opinions by 
the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by 
the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 
Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints 
and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I 
was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a 
mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found 
that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to 
contend with ; having, in the course of his researches on 
the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 301 

sectarian controversies of the Eevolution, when the Puri- 
tans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of 
the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the 
land by proclamation of Parliament.""^ Th« worthy jiar- 
son lived but with times past, and knew but little of the 
present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were 
to him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the 
Eevolution was mere modern history. He forgot that 
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecu- 
tion of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum 
porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast- 
beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been 
brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of 
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into 
warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a 
stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other 

* From the "Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 
21th, 1G52 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of 
the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were pre- 
sented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded 
upon divine Scriptm-es, 2 Cor. v. IG ; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in honor of 
the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10 ; 
Psalm cxviii. 24 ; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 ; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, in 
which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Massemongers 
and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament 
spent some time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, 
passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, 
which was commonly called Christmas day." 



302 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject 
of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his 
hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to 
stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and 
feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the 
Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 
with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church 
the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the 
gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. 
The elder folks gathered in knots in the church-yard, 
greeting and shaking hands ; and the children ran about 
crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* 
which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The villagers 
doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him 
the good wishes of the season with every appearance of 
heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, 
to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, 
which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjo3^ments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- 
mas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a 

* " Ule ! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and ery ule I " 



CHUI8TMA8 DAY. 303 

rising ground whicli commanded something of a pros- 
pect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then 
reached our ears : the squire paused for a few moments, 
and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. 
The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire 
philanthroi^y. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the 
morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired 
sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow 
from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living 
green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with 
the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. 
Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, 
yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering 
through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhala- 
tions to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above 
the surface of the earth. There was something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the 
frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, 
an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through 
the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every 
heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indi- 
cations of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
comfortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I 
love," said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and 
poor ; it is a great thing to have, one day in the year, at 
least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you 
go, and of having, as it were, the world thrown all open to 



304 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

you ; and I am almost disposed to join witli Poor Robin, 
in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest 
festival — 

" Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him. 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent at 
this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by 
the higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor- 
houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables 
were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; 
when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and 
when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
make merry.* " Our old games and local customs," said 
he, " had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his 
home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made 
him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and 
kinder, and better, and I can truly say, with one of our 
old poets : 

• * "An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e. on 
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter 
his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black- 
jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good 
Cheshire cheese. Tlie Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by day- 
break, or else two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by 
the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed of her 
laziness." — Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



CnmSTMAS DAY. 305 

'I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 
i 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have al- 
most lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have 
broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to 
think their interests are separate. They have become 
too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- 
house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode 
to keep them in good humor in these hard times would 
be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their 
estates, mingle more among the country people, and set 
the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating pub- 
lic discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put 
his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept 
open house during the holidays in the old style. The 
country people, however, did not understand how to play 
their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth cir- 
cumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the 
vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the 
neighborhood in one week than the parish ofl&cers could 
get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented him- 
self with inviting the decent part of the neighboring 
peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with 
distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, 
that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 
20 



306 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, 
without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with rib- 
bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their 
hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a 
large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall door, where the music struck up a pecu- 
liar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate 
dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs to- 
gether, keeping exact time to the music ; while one, 
whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which 
flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of 
the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic 
gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great in- 
terest and delight, and gave me a full account of its ori- 
gin, which he traced to the times when the Romans held 
possession of the island ; plainly proving that this was a 
lineal descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. 
"It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and 
had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it 
was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, 
and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. 
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 307 

regard. It is true I perceived two or three of tlie 
younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to 
their mouths, when the squire's back was turned, making 
something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; 
but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave 
faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master Si- 
mon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His 
varied occupations and amusements had made him well 
known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visit- 
or at every farmhouse and cottage ; gossiped with the 
farmers and their wives ; romped with their daughters ; 
and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country 
round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine 
and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when 
it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, 
and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by 
a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more than 
oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, 
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 
faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit 
of the village ; for I observed all his companions to wait 
"with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- 
tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 



308 THE SEETCn-BOOK. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment: as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, \ 
heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking 
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band 
of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- 
bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a 
jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other 
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, col- 
oring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our jojful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens tliey with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye. 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 

HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with 
Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we 
heard a distant thwacking sound, which he 
iniormed me was a signal for the serving up of the 
dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as 
well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser 
by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the 
meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 
His summons did obey ; 

309 




310 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
Mareh'd boldly up, like our train band, 
Presented, and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
S})acious apartment, and the ilame went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been 
profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and 
holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the hel- 
met and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
tood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by 
the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the 
painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, 
they certainly having the stamp of more recent daj'S ; but 
I was told that the painting had been so considered time 
out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found 
in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation 
by the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor 
of the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on 
all such subjects in his own household, the matter had 
passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set 
out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a dis- 
play of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) 
with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple : 

* Sir John Suckling. 



TEE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 311 

" flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and 
ewers ; " tlie gorgeous utensils of good companionsliip 
tliat had gradually accumulated tlirougli many genera- 
tions of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two 
Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magni- 
tude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the 
whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a 
stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument 
with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did 
Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious 
assemblage of countenances ; those who were not hand- 
some were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare im- 
prover of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 
an old English family as well worth studying as a col- 
lection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. 
There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Per- 
haps it may be from having continually before their eyes 
those rows of old family portraits, with which the man- 
sions of this country are stocked ; certain it is, that the 
quaint features of antiquit}^ are often most faithfully per- 
petuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old 
family nose through a whole picture gallery, legitimately 
handed down from generation to generation, almost from 
the time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to 
be observed in the worthy company around me. Many 



312 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of tlieir faces liad evidently originated in a Gothic age, 
and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and 
there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, 
with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, 
who was a great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, 
a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one 
of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry YIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well- worded 
one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if 
something was expected; when suddenly the butler en- 
tered the hall with some degree of bustle : he was at- 
tended by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, 
and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's 
head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its 
mouth, which was placed with great formality at the 
head of the table. The moment this pageant made its 
appearance, the harper struck up a flourish ; at the con- 
clusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint 
from the squire, gave, with an air of the most comic grav- 
ity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows : 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 



THE CHRISTMAS DmNEE. 313 

Tliougli prepared to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of 
mine host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd 
a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I 
gathered from the conversation of the squire and the par- 
son, that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the 
boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with much cere- 
mony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said 
the squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing 
in itself, but because it was observed at the college at 
Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear the 
old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when 
I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college 
hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in their 
black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their 
graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up 
with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Ox- 
onian's version of the carol ; which he affirmed was dif- 
ferent from that sung at college. He went on, with the 
dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college 
reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; address- 
ing himself at first to the company at large ; but finding 
their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other 
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors 
diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an under 



314 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, wto was 
silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
tarkej.* 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and 
presented an epitome of country abundance, in this sea- 
son of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was 
allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; 
being, as he added, " the standard of old English hospi- 
tality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expec- 
tation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, 
and which had evidently something traditional in their 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is 
still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by 
the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be accept- 
able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned mat* 
ters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero. 

Reddens laudes domino. 

The boar's head, as T imderstand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land. 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us sers'ire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In llcginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 315 

embellisliments ; but about wliicli, as I did not like to 
appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail 
of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of 
the table. This, the squire confessed, with some little 
hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pic 
was certainly the most authentical ; but there had been 
such a mortality among the jieacocks this season, that he 
could not prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which 
he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble dis- 
tance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertain- 
ments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the liead 
appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at 
the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the 
solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to 
undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used 
by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and 
Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with 
which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels 
of the olden times : — 

Men may talk of Country Christraasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues ; 

Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat 
wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. 



316 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

children and relatives ; ■who, indeed, entered readilY into 
the full spirit of them, and seemed all -w-ell versed in 
their parts ; having doubtless been present at many a 
rehearsal I was amused, too, at the air of profound 
gravity with which the butler and other servants exe- 
cuted the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They 
had an old-fashioned look; having, for the most part, 
been brought up in the household, and grown into keep 
ing with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its 
lord ; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical 
regulations as the established laws of honorable house- 
keeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in 
a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, 
which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was 
hailed with acclamation ; being the "Wassail Bowl, so re- 
nowned in. Christmas festivity. The contents had been 
prepared by the squire himself ; for it was a beverage in 
the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided him- 
self : alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for 
the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a po- 
tation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper 
leap within him ; being composed of the richest and 
raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted 
apples bobbing about the surface.* 

* The "Wafsail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; 
with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the 
nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNEB. 317 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with 
a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this 
mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty 
wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brim- 
ming round the board, for every one to follow his ex- 
ample, according to the primitive style ; pronouncing it 
" the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts 
met together." * 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Si- 
mon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a 
boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a. 

Fill 

Still, 

hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's 
Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Kight : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

* "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each 
having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, 
he was to ciy three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the cbappell 
(chaplein) was to answer with a song." — ARCHiEOLOGiA. 



318 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Let the world say what it will. 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.* 

Much of tlie conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics, to wliicli I was a stranger. There was, 
however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about 
some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having 
a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; 
but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat- 
headed old gentleman next the parson, with the perse- 
vering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those 
long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at start- 
ing game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it 
down. At every pause in the general conversation, he 
renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms ; 
winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave 
Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The 
latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub- 
ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion 
to inform me, in an under tone, that the lady in question 

* From Poor Robin's Almanac, 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 319 

"was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own cur- 
ricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded 
in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, 
yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and 
genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent 
being to difi'use pleasure around him ; and how truly is 
a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every thing 
in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous disposi- 
tion of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he 
"was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world 
happy ; and the little eccentricities of his humor did but 
season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

"When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as 
usual, became still more animated ; many good things 
were broached which had been thought of during dinner, 
but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and 
though I cannot positively affirm that there was much 
wdt uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of 
rare wit produce much less laughter. "Wit, after all, is a 
mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for 
some stomachs ; but honest good humor is the oil and 
wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial compan- 
ionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, 
and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 



320 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

been a sharer ; tliongli in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark 
anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gam- 
bol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures 
of what men may be made by their different lots in life. 
The squire had left the university to live lustily on his 
paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosper- 
ity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and 
florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, 
had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the 
silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to 
be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering 
in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at a 
sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom 
they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentle- 
man made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I 
could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was in- 
dicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an 
old gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed 
gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on 
the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew 
merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master 
Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled 
with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, 
and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even 
gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he 
informed me he had gathered from an excellent black- 



TEE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 321 

letter work, entitled " Cupid's Solicitor for Love," con- 
taining store of good advice for bachelors, and wliicli he 
promised to lend me : the first verse was to this effect : 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always 
stuck in the middle, every body recollecting the latter 
part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show 
the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down 
into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one 
side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the 
drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation 
of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered 
with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing 
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blindman's-buff. Master 
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed 
31 



522 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

on all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient po- 
tentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst 
of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as 
the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at 
the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One 
fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair 
all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her 
frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a 
romp, was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness 
with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, 
and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and 
obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected 
the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was 
convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the 
company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, 
who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, 
the w^ork of some cunning artificer of yore, which had 
been brought from the library for his particular accom- 
modation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with 
which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so ad- 
mirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of 
the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding 
country, with which he had become acquainted in the 



* At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, ■wheresoever hee was 
lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of inerie disportes, and the like had 
ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he 
spirituall or temporal!. — Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 323 

course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined 
to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat 
tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be 
who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered 
part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 
so often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. 
He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the 
neighboring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the cru- 
sader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As 
it was the only monument of the kind in that part of 
the country, it had always been regarded with feelings 
of suj)erstition by the good wives of the village. It was 
said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of 
the church-yard in stormy nights, particularly when it 
thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered 
on the church-yard, had seen it through the windows of 
the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and 
down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had 
been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure 
hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and 
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in 
the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there 
was a story current of a sexton in old times, who endeav- 
ored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as 
he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble 
hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of 
the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, 



324 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were 
shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the 
church-yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something 
supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in what- 
ever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior 
were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the 
lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, 
and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, 
that in her young days she had often heard say, that on 
Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of 
ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk 
abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 
down from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which 
occasion the church door most civilly swung open of it- 
self ; not that he needed it ; for he rode through closed 
gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of 
the dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great 
park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 
countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- 
tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He lis- 
tened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips 
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 325 

favor on account of lier talent for the marvellous. He 
was liimself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
and often lamented tliat lie could not believe in tliem; 
for a superstitious person, lie thought, must live in a 
kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous 
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something 
like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of 
many small voices and girlish laughter. The door sud- 
denly flew open, and a train came trooping into the room, 
that might almost have been mistaken for the breaking 
up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Mas- 
ter Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord 
of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mum- 
mery or masking ; and having called in to his assistance 
the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe, 
for any thing that should occasion romping and merri- 
ment, they had carried it into instant efiect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes- 
presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up 
the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several 
generations ; the younger part of the company had been 
privately convened from the parlor and hall, and the 
whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imita- 
tion of an antique mask. * 

* Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old 
times ; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid 



326 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had 
very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's 
petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village 
steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of 
the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved bold- 
ly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed 
the very trophy of a December blast. He was accom- 
panied by the blue -eyed romp, dished up as "Dame 
Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded bro- 
cade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. 
The young officer appeared as Eobin Hood, in a sport- 
ing dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold 
tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to 
deep research, and there was an evident eye to the pic- 
turesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence of 
his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty 
rustic dress, as " Maid Marian." The rest of the train 
had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls 
trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the 
Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with 
burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging 
sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the charac- 
ter of Koast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies 

under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disgnisings. I 
strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben 
Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



TEE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 327 

celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under 
the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character 
of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a 
mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller per- 
sonages of the pageant. 

Tlie irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of 
uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself 
with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient 
Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though 
giggling. Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance 
of all the characters, which from its medley of costumes, 
seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; 
the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and 
the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, 
through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the sim- 
ple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and 
rubbing his liands, and scarcely hearing a word the par- 
son said, notAvith standing that the latter was discoursing 
most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at 
the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the min- 
uet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from 
pavo, a peacock, sayg, '* It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of 



328 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
gayetj passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- 
eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out 
from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the 
freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting 
customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, 
perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole 
of them was still punctiliously observed. There was 
a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave 
it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; 
and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and 
"wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long de- 
parted years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time 
for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the 
questions asked by my graver readers, " To what pur- 
pose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by 



dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by 
those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and 
by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, 
resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. 

* At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an 
old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of 
date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all 
the customs above described, existing in unexpected vigor in tlie skirts of 
Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The 
reader will And some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn 
at Newstead Abbey. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 329 

ttis talk ? " Alas ! is there not wisdom enougli extant 
for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there 
not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment? — It is so much pleasanter to please than to in- 
struct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. 
What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could 
throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure 
that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the 
opinions of others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, 
the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, 
I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out 
one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy 
heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings 
and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written 
entirely in vain. 




LONDON ANTIQUES. 

I do walk 

Methluks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 

Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country 

I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 

Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletchek. 

AM somewliat of an antiquity hunter, and am 
fond of exploring London in quest of the relics 
of old times. These are principally to be found 
in tlie depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost 
in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving poeti- 
cal and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic 
world around them. I was struck with an instance of 
the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble into 
the city ; for the city is only to be explored to advantage 
in summer time, when free from the smoke and fog, and 
rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some 
time against the current of population setting through 
Fleet-street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, 
and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and dis- 
cordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, 
and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy 
throp^ through which I had to struggle, when in a fit of 

330 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 831 

desperation I tore mj way through the crowd, phinged 
into a by lane, and after passing through several obscure 
nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court 
with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and 
kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its 
sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was 
seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly meditat- 
ing on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids 
with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an 
oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By de- 
grees the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my 
nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and 
came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low- 
browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. 
The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from 
above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, 
on which were extended the marble effigies of warriors 
in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon 
the breast; others grasped the pommel of the sword, 
menacing hostility even in the tomb ! — while the crossed 
legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had 
been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; 
and I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man 
of the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the 
highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among 



332 TEE SEETCn-BOOK. 

these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and 
forge tfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered 
another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up 
in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some 
time through dull monotonous streets, destitute of any 
thing to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I 
beheld before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering anti- 
quity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the 
court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which 
stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was anti- 
quity hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. 
Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, 
I continued on until I found myself in a great hall, with 
a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic archi- 
tecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fire- 
place, with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end 
was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a 
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet 
and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, 
that I had not met with a human being since I had passed 
the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a 
recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad 
flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 333 

tints from panes of colored glass ; wliile an open case- 
ment let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head 
on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, I in- 
dulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been 
the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of 
monastic origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate estab- 
lishments built of yore for the promotion of learning, 
where the patient monk, in the amjDle solitude of the 
cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emu- 
lating in the productions of his brain the magnitude of 
the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall w^as opened, 
and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black 
cloaks, came forth one by one ; proceeding in that man- 
ner through the hall, without uttering a word, each turn- 
ing a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing 
through a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their 
black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style 
of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if 
the ghosts of the departed years, about which I had been 
musing, were passing in review before me. Pleasing my- 
self with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, 
to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, 
existing in the very centre of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior 
courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the 



334 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

main edifice had many additions and dependencies, built 
at various times and in various styles ; in one open space 
a number of boys, who evidently belonged to the estab- 
lishment, were at their sports ; but everywhere I observed 
those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- 
times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : 
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. I 
now called to mind what I had read of certain colleges in 
old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necroman- 
cy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught. 
"Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these 
black-cloaked old men really professors of the black art ? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my 
eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of 
strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage war- 
fare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled ser- 
pents "and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while 
on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned 
a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic 
chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necro- 
mancer, when I was startled at beholding a human coun- 
tenance staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that 
of a small, shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright 
eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first 
doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously pre- 
served, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It 
was another of those black-cloaked old men, and, as I 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 335 

regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, 
and the hideous and sinister objects by which he was 
surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had 
come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this magical 
fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how 
did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- 
morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me 
into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece ? He proved, 
however, to be any thing but a conjurer, and his simple 
garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with 
which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no 
less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of 
an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de- 
cayed householders, with which was connected a school 
for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards 
of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, 
and retained somewhat of the conventual air and charac- 
ter. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who 
had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had ele- 
vated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners return- 
ing from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I 
had made the arch magician, had been for six years a 
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nest- 
ling-place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up 



336 T^E SKETCH-BOOK. 

in the course of his life. According to his own account 
he had been somewhat of a traveller ; having been once 
in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then 
he might have said he had been there." — He was evi- 
dently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, 
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His 
chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and 
Greek, of both which languages Hallum was profoundly 
ignorant; and a broken-down gentleman who had run 
through a fortune of forty thousand pounds, left him by 
his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage por- 
tion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an 
indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty sj)irit 
to be able to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into 
which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called 
the Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was 
founded in 1611, on the remains of an ancient convent, 
by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble chari- 
ties set on foot by individual munificence, and kept 
up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times 
amidst the modern changes and innovations of London. 
Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen better 
days, are provided, in their old age, with food, clothing, 
fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They 



LONDON ANTIQUES, 337 

dine togetlier as did the monks of old, in tte tall wliicli 
liad been the refectory of the original convent. Attached 
to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, 
speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pension- 
ers, says, " They are not to intermeddle with any busi- 
ness touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend 
only to the service of God, and take thankfully what is 
provided for them, without muttering, murmuring, or 
grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored 
boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or 
any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as be- 
comes hospital men to wear." "And in truth," adds 
Stow, " happy are they that are so taken from the cares 
and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as 
these old men are ; having nothing to care for, but the 
good of their souls, to serve God and to live in brotherly 
love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by 
the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observa- 
tion, and who may wish to know a little more about the 
mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of local his- 
tory, put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman 
in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom 
I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter 
House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether 
it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off 
23 



338 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

upon inquiring trayellers like myself; and wliieli liave 
brouglit our general character for veracity into such un- 
merited reproach. On making proper inquiries, how- 
ever, I have received the most satisfactory assurances of 
the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that he 
is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the 
very interesting region in which he resides ; of which the 
following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying by 
me wliieh if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of 
Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. 

Nashe. 



N tlie centre of the great city of London lies a 
small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of 
narrow streets and courts, of very venerable 
and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Lit- 
tle Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholo- 
mew's Hospital bound it on the west; Smithfield and 
Long Lane on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm 
of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; 
whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street sepa- 
rates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. 
Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, 
the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the interven- 
ing houses of Paternoster Kow, Amen Corner, and Ave Ma- 
ria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, 
in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. 
As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled 
off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took 
possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Lit* 

839 



340 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tie Britain became tlie great mart of learning, and was 
peopled by tlie busy and prolific race of booksellers; 
these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond 
the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater- 
noster Row and St. Paul's Church-Yard, where they con- 
tinue to increase and multiply even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 
houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are 
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hide- 
ous faces, unkno^vTi birds, beasts, and fishes : and fruits 
and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to clas- 
sify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains 
of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, 
but which have in latter days been subdivided into sev- 
eral tenements. Here may often be found the family of a 
petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing 
among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling 
time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded 
cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and 
courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand 
a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily 
maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have 
their gable ends to the street ; great bow windows, with 
diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low 
arched door-ways.* 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has 
included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes 
and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 341 

In this most venerable and slieltered little nest have 
I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably 
lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but old- 
est edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted cham- 
ber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous 
array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three 
or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar- 
nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen bet- 
ter days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old 
palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep to- 
gether, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon 
their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen de- 
cayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian so- 
ciety with which they were reduced to associate. The 
whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow 
window ; on the panes of which are recorded the names 
of previous occupants for many generations, mingled 
with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, 
written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and 
which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Brit- 
ain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed 
away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- 
pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked 
upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighbor- 
hood ; and, being curious to learn the internal state of a 
community so apparently shut up within itself, I have 
managed to work my way into all the concerns and se- 
crets of the place. 



342 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of 
the city ; the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a 
fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its 
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great 
preservation many of the holiday games and customs 
of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes 
on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and 
roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on 
Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, 
and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in super- 
stitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
grounds as the only true English wines ; all others be- 
ing considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, 
which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; 
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the 
beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at 
St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the lions in the 
Tower : and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still 
believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman 
that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable 
subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the 
girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered un- 
comfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls 
dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a 
death in the place. There are even many ghost stories 
current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses ; 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 343 

in several of which it is said strange sights are some- 
times seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bot- 
tomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in 
lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walk- 
ing up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight 
nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient 
proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. 
One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old 
gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small 
apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, 
full of cavities and projections ; with a brown circle 
round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is 
much thought of by the old women, who consider him as 
a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed 
alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in 
bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and news- 
papers, and is much given to pore over alarming ac- 
counts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and vol- 
canic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as 
signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of 
the kind to deal out to his customers, with their doses ; 
and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into 
an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- 
tions ; and has the prophecies of Kobert Nixon and 
Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much 
out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he 
Bhook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his 



344 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened 
out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular 
legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually 
eloquent. There has been a saying current among the 
ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when 
the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook 
hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church stee- 
ple, fearful events would take place. This strange con- 
junction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The 
same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs 
of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow 
Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grass- 
hopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his work- 
shop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may 
go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, 
but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, 
and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs 
and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous 
weather-cocks have thus laid their heads together, won- 
derful events had already occurred. The good old king, 
notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had 
all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted 
the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in 
France, had been murdered ; there had been radical 
meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes 
at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street; — and, 
above all, the Queen had returned to England! All 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 345 

these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with 
a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and 
being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of 
his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, 
and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, 
they have spread great gloom through the minds of the 
people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they 
never expected any good to come of taking down that 
steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tid- 
ings, as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears 
witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial 
cheese-monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old 
family mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a 
round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Chesh- 
ires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and im- 
portance ; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, 
and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His oj)in- 
ion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the 
Sunday papers for the last half century, together with 
the Gentleman's Magazine, Bapin's History of England, 
and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with inval- 
uable maxims which have borne the test of time and use 
for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral 
impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that 
any thing can shake her : and he has much to say on the 
subject of the national debt; which, somehow or other, 



346 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. 
He passed tlie greater part of his life in the purlieus of 
Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become 
rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he 
begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has 
therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, High- 
gate, and other neighboring toAvns, where he has passed 
whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the stee- 
ple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull- 
and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and 
he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the 
Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church-yard. His family 
have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to 
Margate, but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, 
the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced 
in life to undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- 
sions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in con- 
sequence of two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in 
the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse 
Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the 
other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of tlie 
apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter was the 
most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at 
each, and have acquired much valuable information, as 
to the best mode of being buried, the comparative merits 
of church-yards, together with divers hints on the sub- 



LITTLE BBITAm. 347 

ject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question 
discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohib- 
iting the latter on account of their durability. The feuds 
occasioned by these societies have happily died of late ; 
but they were for a long time prevailing themes of con- 
troversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely 
solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in 
their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of 
quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine 
of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets 
once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a 
jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for 
insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seductive 
bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscrip- 
tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as 
" Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," *' Wine, Bum, and 
Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Bum and Compounds, etc." 
This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus 
from time immemorial. It has always been in the family 
of the "Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably pre- 
served by the present landlord. It was much frequented 
by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, 
and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles 
the Second's day. But what "Wagstaff principally prides 
himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his 
nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors 
with his famous walking-staff. This however is consid- 



348 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ered as ratlier a dubious and vainglorious boast of tbe 
landlord. 

Tlie club wliicli now holds its weekly sessions here 
goes by the name of " The Roaring Lads of Little Brit- 
ain." They abound in old catches, glees, and choice 
stories, that are traditional in the place, and not to be 
met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is 
a mad-cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; 
but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Lit- 
tle Britain, is bully Wagsta£f himself. His ancestors 
were all wags before him, and he has inherited with tlie 
inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it 
from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a 
dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red 
face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray 
hair behind. At the opening of every club night he is 
called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the 
famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's Nee- 
dle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he 
received it from his father's lips ; for it has been a stand- 
ing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever 
since it was written : nay, he affirms that his predeces- 
sors have often had the honor of singing it before the 
nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Lit- 
tle Britain was in all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be 
familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current 
songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



349 



It woTild do one's lieart good to hear, on a club night, 
the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now 
and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant 

observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful 
thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though 1 go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 

Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 

Whether it be new or olde. 



I have no rost, but a nut brawne teste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre, 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwlylapfc 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see. 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle. 

Even as a mault-worrtie sholde. 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



J{5() THE SKETCIinoOK. 

voicoa, which isRue from this jovial mansion. At such 
tinios tlio street is lined with listeners, who «'iijoy a de- 
lii;lit ecjnal to that of ^a/in<jj into a confectioner's wiu- 
tlow, or sniilliiif;' iij» the steams of a coolv-sIio[). 

Tli(>rt> arc^ two annual ev(Mits wliicli |iro( luce great stir 
unci sensation in Little JViitain ; these are St. l^artholo- 
luow's fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time 
of the fair, which is hold in the adjoining regions of 
Sinitlil'ield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and 
gadding ahont. The lato quiet streets of Little Britain 
are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces; 
every tavern is a scc>ne of rout and rtnc^l. The ilddlo and 
the song are heard from the taj)-rooin, luoiniug, noon, 
ami night; and at (\u'h Avin(h)\v may be seen some group 
of bot)n companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, 
pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and pros- 
ing, and singing maudlin songs over their li(pior. Even 
tln^ sober decorvmi of i)rivate families, Avhieh I must say 
is rigidly l;ept up at other times among my neighbors, is 
no jn-oof against this Saturnalia. There is no sueh thing 
as keei)ing maid-servants within doors. Their brains are 

Nmv Ii't fhoiu (Irynko, lyll thoynoil niul wiiiko, 

Even lis f^oodo IVll(i\v»'S slioKU^ doc. 
They slmll not mysso to liavo tlio blisso, 

Good alo dotli briiijj moii to; 
And all poorc soulos dial liavc soowri'd bowlos, 

Or liuvo IlioiM lustdy Iroldo, 
(iod save tlii> lyvcs of llioni and tlioir wives, 

WhotluT tlioy bo youj;o or oldo. 
Churns. Backo uiid sydo go buri<, go bare, etc. 



LITTI.E JUIITAIN. 351 

abHolutely Bot maddinf^ with Punch and tho Puppot Show ; 
tlio Flying JIorHOH ; Si^aiior Poliio ; tho Firfj-Eat^ir ; tJio 
cfjliibratrtd Mr. l*aap ; and thf; IrinJi Giant. Tho cljildron 
too laviHh all tJioir Ijoliday mrjnoy in toys and gilt gin- 
{H:y})\('M<\, and fill tlif; liotiso wiili tli'; Jjilliputian din of 
drinnH, trunipotH, and penny whintloH. 

Jiut tho Jiord Mayor'H day \h tho {^roat annivornary. 
Tho Jiord Mayor in h;ok<;d up to l)y tlio inhabiiantH of 
Ijitth; Jirituln as tlio groatcHt potentates ujjon ftartli ; IjIh 
(.nit ooaoli witli nix liorHOH as tho Humrnit of human 
Hplo^ndfjr; and liiH procossion, with all tho KhorifFs and 
Ahhirmon in hin train, an tho grandost of earthly l>ag- 
oantH. How thoy oxult in tho idoa, that tho King hini- 
Kolf daro not (inter tho city, without first knockijjg at 
tho gato of Toniplo Jiar, and anking pormission of tho 
Jjord Mayor: for if lio did, }j(iavon and oarth ! tlioro is no 
knowing wliat might }>o tho conso.quonco. TIjo man in 
iiviuor who ridos Ixiforo tho Lord Mayor, and is tho city 
cJjarnjjion, haw ordors to cut dr> wn (;vory }>ody that offendw 
against tho dignity of tho city ; and thon thoro is tho lit- 
tle man with a velvet porringf.r on liin head, who HitH at 
tlio window of tlio state coach, and holds tho city sword, 
as lorjg as a piko-staflf — Odd's Idood! Jf ho once drawH 
that Bword, Majesty itself is not safo! 

Under tho protection of this mighty potentate, there- 
for(j, the good pooj^lo of Little Jiritain sleep in peace. 
Tomple \''y,ir is an fiffectual l>arrif;r against all intfjrior 
foes; and as to iVjjeign ijiv;ision, tho Lord Mayo/' has but 



352 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to throw liimself into tlie Tower, call in the train bands, 
and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, 
and he may bid defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, 
and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished 
as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I 
have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, 
where the principles of sturdy John BuUism were gar- 
nered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character, 
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have re- 
joiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- 
vailed throughout it ; for though there might now and 
then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents 
of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occa- 
sional feud between the burial societies, yet these were 
but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neigh- 
bors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the 
hand, and never abused each other except behind their 
backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present ; where we played at All- 
Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice 
old games ; and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- 
lish country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. 
Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, 
and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would 
have done any man's heart good to see the merriment 
that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 353 

the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts cf 
laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry un- 
dertaker ! After dinner, too, tlie young folks would play 
at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amus- 
ing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a 
fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the 
bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; 
for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pock- 
ets, to pass away time in the country. They would now 
and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but 
their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a 
worthy old umbrella maker in a double chin, who, never 
exactly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or 
other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some pliilosoj)her or histo- 
rian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury 
and innovation creep in ; factions arise ; and families 
now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues 
throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter 
days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been griev- 
ously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners 
threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family 
of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the 
most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the 
Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every- 
body was pleased when Old Lamb had made money 
23 



354 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass 
plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the 
Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance 
on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on 
which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers 
on her head. The family never got over it ; they were 
immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up 
a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the 
errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation 
of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no 
longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's- 
buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which 
nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain; and they 
took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing 
upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been 
articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, 
characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he con- 
founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neigh- 
bors ; but they had a great deal of genteel company from 
Theobald's Eoad, Red-Lion Square, and other parts to- 
wards the west. There were several beaux of their broth- 
er's acquaintance from Gray's Lm Lane and Hatton 
Garden ; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with 
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or for- 
given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 



LITTLE BRITAIN, 355 

smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and 
the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The 
gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 
night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehi- 
cles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old 
cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite 
the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every 
one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- 
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of 
her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly 
way ; " and it is equally true that her invitations were 
always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con- 
trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted 
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would conde- 
scend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; 
and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. 
Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Port- 
sokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses 
of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their con- 
sciences, and averted the reproaches of their confeder- 
ates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation 
every thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and 
their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made 



356 THE 8KETCn-B00K. 

fashionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest 
Lamb, in spite of the meekness of liis name, was a rougli, 
hearty old fellow, witli the voice of a lion, a head of 
black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad face mottled 
like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters 
always spoke of him as " the old gentleman," addressed 
him as " pai)a," in tones of infinite softness, and endeav- 
ored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and 
other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there 
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature 
would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty 
vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very 
jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder-, and he per- 
sisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, din- 
ing at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage with his 
tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of 
his family. He found his old comrades gradually grow- 
ing cold and civil to him ; no longer laughing at his 
jokes ; and now and then throwing out a fling at " some 
people," and a hint about " quality binding." This both 
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; and his wife 
and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at 
length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe 
and tankard at Wagstaff's ; to sit after dinner by himself, 
and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to 
nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 357 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along 
the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and 
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves 
of every good lady within hearing. They even went 
BO far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a 
French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood ; 
but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack 
up fiddle and dancing -pumps, and decamp with such 
precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his 
lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all 
this fiery indignation on the part of the community was 
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English 
manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded 
the silent contempt they were so vociferous in express- 
ing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss 
Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the 
infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after 
condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I 
overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let 
their daughters have one quarter at French and music, 
and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I 
even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than 
five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss 
Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually 
die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- 



358 TEE SKETCn-BOOK. 

borhood ; miglit die, or might run away with, attorneys* 
apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be 
again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival 
power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow 
with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. 
The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the 
parsimony of a prudent father, which kej)t down all their 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer 
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took 
the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 
an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances ; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. "When the Lambs 
appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trot- 
ters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be 
behindhand : and though they might not boast of as good 
company, yet they had double the number, and were twice 
as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two 
families. The old games of Pope- Joan and Tom-come- 
tickle-me are entirely discarded ; there is no such thing 
as getting up an honest country dance ; and on my at- 
tempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last 
Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs 



LITTLE BBITAIN. 359 

having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry 
has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of 
Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of 
Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of 
St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is tliis little territory torn by factions and inter- 
nal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it 
bears ; and what will be the result would 23uzzle the 
apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to 
determine ; though I apprehend that it will terminate in 
the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an 
idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered 
the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand 
therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to 
hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. 
As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all oc- 
casions, I have committed myself most horribly with both 
parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage to 
reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accom- 
modating one, but I cannot to my apprehension — if the 
Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and 
compare notes, I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, 
and am actually looking out for some other nest in this 
great city, where old English manners are still kept up ; 
where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spo- 



360 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ken ; and where there are no fashionable families of re- 
tired tradesmen. Tliis found, I will, like a veteran rat, 
hasten away before I have an old house about my ears : 
bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present 
abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and 
the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little 
Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 
The fairies by moonliglit dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

GARRicra:, 



^W^;:|j0 a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide 
^^fe;^ world which he can truly call his own, there is 
5m^::| a momentary feeling of something like inde- 
pendence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary 
day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into 
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the 
world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so 
long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for 
the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The 
arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the 
little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed em- 
pire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst 
of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleam- 
ing out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced 
some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the im- 
portance of husbanding even morsels and moments of 
enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? " 

361 



362 THE SKETCn.BOOK. 

tlioa^lit I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back In my 
elbow-cliair, and cast a complacent look about the little 
parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from 
the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There 
was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, 
putting in licr smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating 
air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest 
hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute 
dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like 
a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting 
the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shak- 
speare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening morn- 
ings which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was 
about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter 
Lad suddenly given way ; the north wind had speut its 
last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, 
breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing 
every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and 
beauty. 

I liad come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, 
and where, according to tradition, he Avas brought up to 
his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- 
looking edifice of wood and j^laster, a true nestling-placo 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON: 303 

of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its off- 
Hpring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chamhors 
are covered Avith names and inscriptions in every lan- 
guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, 
from the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, 
but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal 
homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and gar- 
nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from 
under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly as- 
siduous in exhibiting the relics with wliich this, like all 
other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shat- 
tered stock of the very match-lock with wliich Sliak- 
speare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. Thorn, 
too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that he was 
a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh : the sword also 
with wliich he played Hamlet ; and the identical lan- 
tern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and 
Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample supply also 
of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, wliich soems to have as 
extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood 
of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to 
build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a 
small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's 
shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, 



364 TUJiJ SKETCH-BOOK. 

watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of 
an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and 
gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church-yard tales and 
legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng- 
land. In this chair it is the custom of every one that 
visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the 
hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am 
at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact ; and mine 
hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid 
oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair 
had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It 
is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordi- 
nary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile na- 
ture of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of 
the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years 
since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has 
found its way back again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and 
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; 
and would advise all travellers who travel for their grati- 
fication to be the same. What is it to us, whether these 
stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 
selves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of 
the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-hu- 
mored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I 
went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 365 

mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, 
luckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a pla^y of her 
own composition, which set all belief in her consanguin- 
ity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces 
brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel 
of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, moulder- 
ing with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the 
banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and sepa- 
rated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. 
Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmur- 
ing at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which 
grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear 
l)osom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are 
curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched 
way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the 
church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the 
gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise 
tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have 
built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the 
walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping ; and 
rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray- 
ilieaded sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to 
get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, 
man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to con- 
sider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 



3GG 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



that lie had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years 
past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the 
Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of 




y Crai^fliv.iiei. 



that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the 
humblest dwellings in this country. A low white-washed 
room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen 
dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken 
table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible 
and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family 
library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed 
volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cot- 
tage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; 
with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and 
the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other: 



stbatfobd-on-avon: 367 

The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enoiigli to ad- 
mit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the 
old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, 
— and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, 
whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, 
I found, had been his companion from childhood. They 
had played together in infancy ; they had worked to- 
gether in manhood ; they were now tottering about and 
gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time 
they will probably be buried togetlier in the neighboring 
churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of 
existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by 
side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life tliat 
they are to be met with. 

1 liad lioped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of 
the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had 
nothing new to impart. The long interval during which 
Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative neglect Las 
spread its shadow over his history ; and it is his good or 
evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biograph- 
ers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Strat- 
ford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime 
mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, 
and who, according to the sexton, was "a short punch 
man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted 
also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of 



368 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wliicli lie had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a 
sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak 
very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the 
Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head when 1 
mentioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly 
her remains of the mulberry tree ; and the old sexton 
even expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been 
born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked 
upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the 
poet's tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few 
"visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth di- 
Terge into different channels even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of 
limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- 
mented, with carved doors of massive oak. The interior 
is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments 
superior to those of most country churches. There are 
several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over 
some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners 
dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shak- 
speare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and 
the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, 
keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks 
the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines 
inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 369 

whicli have in them sometliing extremely awful. If they 
are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the 
quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibili- 
ties and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust 
of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and con- 
sidered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and 
serene, with a finely-arched forehead ; and I thought 
I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, so- 
cial disposition, by which he was as much characterized 
among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his gen- 
ius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of 
his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death for the 
world : for what fruit might not have been expected 
from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it 
was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing 
in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Ab- 
bey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years 
since also, as some laborers were digging to make an 
adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a va- 
24 



370 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cant space almost like an arch, througli wliicli one migtt 
have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed 
to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a 
malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or 
any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit 
depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place 
for two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- 
ture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to 
look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; 
nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have 
seen the dust of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old 
friend John Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he 
is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are 
other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 
on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His 
idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as 
his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and 
thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is 
palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the 
sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of 
Shakspeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a 
long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave 
the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I 



8TRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 371 

plucked a brancli from one of tlie yew trees, the only 
relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- 
tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the 
Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park 
where Shakspeare, in company with some of the roysters 
of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of deer- 
stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that 
he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, 
where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When 
brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treat- 
ment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so 
wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough jDasqui- 
nade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to 
put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming 
deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the 
united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country 
attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — 

A parliament member, a justice of peace. 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If Iqwsie is Lucy, as soem volke miscaUe it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall ic. 



■372 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to Lon- 
don ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; 
and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indif- 
ferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal 
poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of 
the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and re- 
venged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way 
of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the 
original Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed 
upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
those of the knight, had white luces* in the quarter- 
ings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers 
to soften and explain away this early transgression of 
the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thought- 
less exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. 
Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness 
and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undi- 
rected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally 
something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it 
runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing ec- 
centric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in 
the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius 
shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had 
not Shakspeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, 

* The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 



BTMA TFOMD- Olf-A VON. 373 

he might liave as daringly transcended all civil, as he has 
all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, 
like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Strat- 
ford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds 
of odd anomalous characters ; that he associated with 
all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those 
unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake 
their heads, and predict that they will one day come 
to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas 
Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish 
knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed, im- 
agination, as something delightfully adventurous.* 

* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful 
days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by 
the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of 
Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to 
meet,. under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the 
lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. 
Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the 
strength of their heads; and in the number of the champions was Shak- 
speare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer will think 
beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Strat- 
ford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat wliilc they had 
yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile 
when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab- 
tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the 
name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return- 
ing to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enobgh, having drank 
with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 



374 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, 
and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected 
with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the 
scanty history of the bard. As the house stood but 
little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, 
I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas 
of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and ani- 
mating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel 
its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the 
moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade : and the trees and shrubs, 
in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the 
promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold 
snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, 
was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the 
small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets 
thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on 
the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Ililborough; and 
Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



8TRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 375 

new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. 
The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and 
budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into 
his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, spring- 
ing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, tow- 
ered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth 
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was 
a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while 
the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind 
^hakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline : 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phcebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On ehaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : 
every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort 
of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate 
knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those 
legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has 
woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, 
we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter even- 
ings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of er- 



376 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, 
thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay -in sight of the 
Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings 
and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; some- 
times glittering from among willows, which fringed its 
borders ; sometimes disappearing among groves, or be- 
neath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into full 
view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of mea- 
dow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the 
Vale of the Pied Horse. A distant line of undulating 
blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft 
intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the 
silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 
off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, 
and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; 
there being a public right of way through the grounds. 
I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one 
has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is 
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to 

* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, 
witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit 
"with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, con- 
jurors, nyniphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, 
the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier-drake, the piicKle, 
Tom Thombe, hobgoblms, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, 
that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON: 377 

his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neigh- 
bor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown 
open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as 
freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the 
lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling 
all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. 
The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and 
the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, 
with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; 
and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 
from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had 
their origin in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long- 
settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence 
of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but 
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the 
sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that " money could 
do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there 
was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of 
oaks." 



378 TEE 8EETCH-B0GE. 

It was from -wandering in early life among tbis rich 
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoin- 
ing park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the 
Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's commentators 
have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations 
of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in " As 
you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through such 
scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 
and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into 
reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and 
ideas keep breaking upon it.; and we revel in a mute and 
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in 
some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very 
trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the 
grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the 
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song 
which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

Under the green wood tree. 
Who loves to lie witli me. 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 
building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 379 

style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the 
first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly 
in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- 
men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of 
those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a 
kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with' 
a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in 
imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of out- 
post, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere 
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is 
completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted case- 
ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. 
At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, sur- 
mounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 
bend just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds 
of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and 
swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I 
contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind 
Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the 
affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : 

" Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : — ■ 
marry, good air," 

What may have been the joviality of the old mansion 



380 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in tlie days of Sliakspeare, it bad now an air of stillness 
and solitude. Tlie great iron gateway that opened into 
th.e courtyard was locked ; there was no show of servants 
bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as 
I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers 
of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met 
with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and 
stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefari- 
ous expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass 
of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the 
barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that 
lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigor- 
ous exercise of territorial power which was so strenu- 
ously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en- 
trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a 
worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- 
municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of 
the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, 
and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : 
there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, 
that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still re- 
tains much of the appearance it must have had in the 
days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; 
and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. 
The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly 
adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way 



ETRATFORD-ON-AVON. 381 

for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire- 
place, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, 
formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the 
opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, 
with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. 
Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bear- 
ings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being 
dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quar- 
terings the three ivhite luces, by which the character of Sir 
Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. 
They are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives 
of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff 
for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken 
into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of 
himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we 
may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of 
the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous 
indignation of Sir Thomas. 

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber 
matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir 
Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and cxistalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master par- 
son ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or ob- 
ligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three himdred 
years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his 



382 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces 
in their coat.* * * * * 

Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of 
Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha I o' my life, if 1 were young again, the sword should end 
it!" 



Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and in- 
formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to 
cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the fam- 
ily estate, among which was that part of the park where 
Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The 
lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the 
family even at the present day. It is but justice to this 
recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine 
hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses 
of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the 
hall in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first 
thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the 
housekeeper assured me that it was his son; the only 
likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his 
tomb in the church of. the neischboring hamlet of Charle- 



STRATFOBD-ON-AVOm 383 

cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and 
manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and 
doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a 
peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane- 
colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side 
of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the 
children have a most venerable stiffness and formality of 
dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, 
and one of the children holds, a bow ; — all intimating the 
knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indis- 
pensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.t 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete 
armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the fol- 
lowing inscription; which, if really composed by her husband, places him 
quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlccot 
in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton 
of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this 
wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare 
of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her 
lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any 
cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most 
faythful and true. In friendship most constant ; to what in trust was 
committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of 
her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with 
her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly 
esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the en\-yous. When 
all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to 
be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtu- 
ously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe 
what hath byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye. 

f Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob> 
serves, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, 



384 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the 
hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the 
stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country- 
squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of 
empire over his rural domains ; and in which it might be 
presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in 
awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought 
before him. As I like to deck out j)ictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this 
very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's exam- 
ination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. 
I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by 
his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving- 
men, with their badges ; while the luckless culprit was 
brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of 
gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clovvus. I fancied bright 
faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened 
doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 
knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful 



and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their 
throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden 
of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, 
and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description 
of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, 
fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both long and 
short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, 
and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad 
hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and 
spaniels." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 385 

prisoner witli tliat pity " tliat dwells in womanliood." — • 
"Wlio would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 
trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, 
and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 
delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the 
dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immor- 
tality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the gar- 
den, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor 
where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin 
Silence " to a last year's pippin of his own grafting, with 
a dish of caraways ; " but I had already spent so much 
of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up 
any further investigations. When about to take my leave 
I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper 
and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an in- 
stance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we 
castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I 
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present repre- 
sentative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for 
Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shal- 
low importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing 
instances to Falstaff. 

"By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * I will not 
excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; 
there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * * . Some 
pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 
25 



386 THE SKETCHBOOK 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the im- 
aginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I 
seemed to be actually liying among them. Every thing 
brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the 
door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to 
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth 
his favorite ditty : 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the 
magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to 
things and places a charm and character not their own, 
and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect fairy 
land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell oper- 
ates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and 
the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I 
had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had 
surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, 
which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. 
I had been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere 
airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, 
to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques 
soliloquize beneath his oak : had beheld the fair Rosa- 
lind and her companion adventuring through the wood- 
lands; and, above all, had been once more present in 



STRATFOBD-ON-AVON. 387 

spirit witli fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from 
the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master 
Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors 
and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull 
realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has spread 
exquisite and unbought pleasures in my chequered path ; 
and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the 
cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- 
tion, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet 
and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have 
derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a 
titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner in 
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave 
may be but the offspring of an over- wrought sensibility ; 
"but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; 
and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admira- 
tion, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks 
to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred 



388 THE SEETCn-BOOK. 

and liis early friends. And when tlie weary heart and 
failing liead begin to warn liim that the evening of life 
is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to 
the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the 
scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should 
become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 
treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- 
come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, 
to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 



TEAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and 

he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him 

not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 



HEEE is something in the character and habits 
of the North American saTage, taken in connec- 
tion with the scenery over which he is accus- 
tomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic 
rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonder- 
fully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilder- 
ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, 
simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties, 
and to support privations. There seems but little soil in 
his heart for the support of the kindly virtues ; and yet, 
if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through 
that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock 
up his character from casual observation, we should find 
him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of 
those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed 
to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 

389 



390 THE SKETCU-nOOK. 

wronged by tliG wliito men. They liavo been dispos- 
sessed of their liereditary possessions by mercenary and 
frequently wanton warfare : and their characters liavo 
been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The 
colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest ; 
and the author has endcavoi-ed to justify him in his 
outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate 
than to civilize ; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. 
The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufH- 
cient to sanction the hostilities of botlx ; and thus the 
j)0()r wanderers of the forest were persecuted and de- 
famed, not because they were guilty, but because they 
were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace ho 
has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he 
has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or 
death was a question of mere precaution and conven- 
ience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity ; 
and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels 
the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to 
destroy. 

Tlie same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, 
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies liave, it is true, witli laudable diligence, 
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters 
and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- 



TRAITR OF INDIAN CnARACTEIl. 301 

ment, too, has wisely and Immanely exerted itself to in- 
culcate a friendly and f()rl)oai'iiig spirit towards them, and 
to protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current 
opinion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to bo 
formed from the miserable hordes which infest the fron- 
tiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These 
are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, cor- 
rupted and enfciobled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited l)y its civilization. That proud indepen- 
dence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, lias 
been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in 
ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and 
daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their 
enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them 
like one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed 
desolation over a wliolo region of fertility. It has ener- 
vated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and super- 
induced upon their original barbarity the low vices of 
artificial life. It has given tliem a thousand superfluous 
wants, whilst it lias diminished their means of mere ex- 
istence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, 



* Tho Amoric.an frovomniont; h.as l)onn indcfalicffiblo, in its oxorfions to 
jiiiH'lionittr IJK! sitiiiitiou of tlics IndLiiis, Jind to introduce iiinonj^' tfuMii tiio 
urts of civiliziUioii, Jiiid (iivil and rcliffious kiiowlcdf^e. To prottict thom 
i'roni the frauds of tlie white tividers, no pureliase of land from tliein by 
individuals is permitted ; nor is any i)erson allowed to receive lands from 
them as a present, without the express sanetiou of government. Those 
precautions arc strictly enforced. 



392 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

■wlio fly from tlie sound of tlie axe and the smoke of tlie 
settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter for- 
ests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too otten find 
the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and 
remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in 
the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious 
and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless 
poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, 
corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble 
quality of their natures. They become drunken, indo- 
lent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter 
like vagrants about the settlements, among spacious 
dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which only 
render them sensible of the comparative wretchedness 
of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board 
before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the ban- 
quet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are starv- 
ing in the midst of its abundance : the whole wilderness 
has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as reptiles 
that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means 
of gratification within their reach. They saw every one 
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same 
hardships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed iii the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open 
to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the 
trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire, and 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 393 

join the hunter in his repast. " For," says an old his- 
torian of New England, " their life is so void of care, and 
they are so loving also, that they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein 
so compassionate, that rather than one should starve 
through want, they would starve all; thus they pass 
their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are bet- 
ter content with their own, which some men esteem so 
meanly of." Such were the Indians, whilst in the pride 
and energy of their primitive natures : they resembled 
those wild plants, which thrive best in the shades of the 
forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, and perish 
beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been 
too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate 
exaggeration, instead of the candid temper of true phil- 
osophy. They have not sufficiently considered the pe- 
culiar circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which they 
have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from 
rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated 
according to some general maxims early implanted in his 
mind. The moral laws that govern him are, ^o be sure, 
but few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the white 
man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, 
but how many does he violate ? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wan- 



394 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tonness witli which, in time of apparent peace, tliey will 
suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white 
men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, dis- 
trustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 
them with that confidence and frankness which are in- 
dispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution 
observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition, which often prompts the Indian to hostility 
quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soli- 
tary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the 
white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper chan- 
nels. His jDride, his affections, his superstitions, are all 
directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted 
on them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives 
of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. 
"Where a community is also limited in number, and 
forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, 
the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; 
and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously 
diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion 
and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the 
fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and super- 
stition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. 
The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are 
wrought up to a kind of religious desperation, by the 
visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, aris- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CEABACTER. 395 

itig from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is ex- 
tant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachu- 
setts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monu- 
ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered 
the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins witK 
■which it had been decorated. The Indians are remark- 
able for the reverence which they entertain for the sepul- 
chres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed gener- 
ations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by 
chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, have 
been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided 
by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the coun- 
try for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, 
Tvhere the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; 
and there have passed hours in silent meditation. In- 
fluenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, 
whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his 
men together, and addressed them in the following beau- 
tifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious specimen, 
of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 
as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were 
fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, 
a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 



396 TEE SKETCH-BOOK 

lapped thee "warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget 
to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced 
my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our an- 
tiquities and honorable customs? See, now, the Sachem's 
grave lies like the common people, defaced by an ignoble 
race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid 
against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on 
our land. If this be su£fered, I shall not rest quiet in my 
everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, 
and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to 
get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were 
fled, and determined to demand your counsel and assist- 
ance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it 
tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which 
have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often 
arise from deep and generous motives, which our inatten- 
tion to Indian character and customs prevents our prop- 
erly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is 
their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 
though sometimes called nations, were never so formi- 
dable in their numbers, but that the loss of several war- 
riors was sensibly felt; this was particularly the case 
when they had frequently been engaged in warfare ; and 
many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, 
that had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 397 

broken up and driven away, by tlie capture and massacre 
of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temp- 
tation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so 
much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for 
future security. The Indians had also the superstitious 
belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent 
also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends 
who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of 
the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus 
sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of 
the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affec- 
tion of relatives and friends ; nay, so hospitable and ten- 
der is their entertainment, that when the alternative is 
offered them, they will often prefer to remain with their 
adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and 
the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. 
"What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- 
stition, has been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men 
are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of 
their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their 
race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries 
and indignities which they have individually suffered, 
and they are driven to madness and despair by the 
wade-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin 
of European warfare. The whites have too frequently 



398* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

set them an example of violence, by burning their vil- 
lages, and laying waste their slender means of subsist- 
ence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show 
moderation and magnanimity towards those who have 
left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and 
treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in 
preference to open force ; but in this they are fully jus- 
tified by their rude code of honor. They are early 
taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the bravest war- 
rior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take 
every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior 
craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to sur- 
prise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally 
more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his 
physical weakness in comparison with other animals. 
They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : 
with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man 
has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his en- 
counters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to 
stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility 
against his fellow-man, he at first continues the same 
subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of 
course is to be efiected by stratagem. That chivalrous 
courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of 
prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 399 

oflfspring of society, and produced by education. It is 
honorable, because it is in fact tlie triumpli of lofty sen- 
timent over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
those yearnings after personal ease and security, which 
society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by 
pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real 
evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme 
of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splen- 
dors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the 
sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthu- 
siasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gor- 
geous pageants have been its reward : monuments, on 
which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treas- 
ures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude 
and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has 
risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of hero- 
ism : and arrayed in all the glorious " pomp and circum- 
stance of war," this turbulent quality has even been able 
to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, 
which silently ennoble the human character, and swell 
the tide of human hajDpiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual ex- 
hibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility 
and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his na- 



400 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ture ; or ratlier seem necessary to arouse his faculties and 
to give an interest to liis existence. Surrounded by hos- 
tile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and sur- 
prisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his 
weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful sin- 
gleness through the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird min- 
gles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere 
speck, across the pathless fields of air ; — so the Indian 
holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 
the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 
may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He 
traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely 
sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his 
"wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he sports, like a 
feather, on their waves, and darts, with the swiftness of 
an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His 
very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 
of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, 
the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thun- 
ders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern day» can surpass the In- 
dian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude 
with which he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed we 
here behold him rising superior to the white man, in 
consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CnARACTEB. 401 

to glorious death at tlie cannon's mouth ; the former 
calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly en- 
dures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes 
and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a 
pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their in- 
genuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on 
his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he 
raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of 
an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early his- 
torians have overshadowed the characters of the unfor- 
tunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break 
through, which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on 
their memories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in 
the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though 
recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet 
speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause 
and sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the des- 
olation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. 
Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis- 
criminate butchery. In one place we read of the sur- 
prisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams 
were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants 
shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being 
despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After 
26 



402 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a series of similar transactions, " our soldiers," as tlie 
liistorian piously observes, "being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the 
unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and 
fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, 
but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod war- 
riors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a 
swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by 
despair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruc- 
tion of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the 
fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask 
their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and pre- 
ferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their 
dismal retreat, so as to render escape imj)racticable. 
Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all 
the time, by w^hich means many were killed and buried 
in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the 
dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and 
escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the con- 
querors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like 
sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-Avilledness 
and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to 
pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke 
upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several 
heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 403 

discliarged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol 
bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under 
the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides 
those that were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by 
friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the 
loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of 
these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the 
instinctive feelings of human nature ? When the Gauls 
laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators 
clothed in their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity 
in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered 
death without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnani- 
mous ; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate 
and sullen! How truly are we the dupes of show 
and circumstance ! How different is virtue, clothed 
in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked 
and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilder- 
ness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests 
that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any 
traces remain of them in the thickly-settled states of 
New England, excepting here and there the Indian name 
of a village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, 



404 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, 
and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests 
to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, 
and they will go the way that their brethren have gone 
before. The few hordes which still linger about the 
shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams 
of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that 
once sjjread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and 
lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of thai; 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the 
Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flour- 
ished about the Potomac and the Bappahannock, and 
that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. 
They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth ; 
their very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; and "the 
places that now know them will know them no more for 
ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them 
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the 
poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like 
the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But 
should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs 
and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were invaded, 
corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes and 
'the sepulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild beasts 
about the earth, and sent down with violence and butch- 
ery to the grave, posterity will either turn with horror 
and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation 
at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — " We are driven 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 405 

back," said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no far- 
ther — our liatcliets are broken, our bows are snapped, 
our fires are nearly extinguished : — a little longer, and 
the white man will cease to persecute us — for we shall 
cease to exist ! " 



PTITLir OF rOKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MKMOIK. 

Am rnoiminciitiil hrdiizc imiliim^cil liis look : 
A soni lliiil |iilv IducIiM lull, lu^vcr hliooU : 
TrniriM from IiIk t,iiH'-i'<»ck'<l niulli- to IiIh l)l(<r, 
Tli(^ ll(•^(■(M^vt^(.•nloH of jjiood iiiid ill lo lirooU 
ImpaHHlvc— fi'iirln^ liut. llii' slianic of friir — 
A Biolc of Uio wooUh— 11 miui \viMi<»iil. ii li'iir. 

CAMriiii;!.!,. 

'I^ is lo ]m ro<^v(AU}d tluit tlioso o;ir\y writers, 
wlio trcMlcd of the discovery and settlement of 
America, liave not ^ivon uh nion^ particnlar and 
candid acconntH of the remarkable characters that flonr- 
IhIkhI in Rava}j;e life. The .scanty anecdotes which have 
reached ns are full of peculiarity and interest ; they fur- 
nish us with nearer {glimpses of Iiuiu.'mi nature, and show 
what man is in u coin])arativoly primitive state, and what 
lie owes to civili/.Jilion. TIkm'c is something of the charm 
of discovery in lij^litin^ u])()n these wild and unexplored 
tracts of hunnm nature ; in witnessiufif, as it were, the 
native growth of ino)-;il siMitinuMit, .-uid ])erceiving tlioso 
generous and romantic (j[uulities which have been arti- 

400 




vnihiv OF r()KANOh'ii:T. \(yj 

ficially cnltivatod l)y Hocii^iy, vi^gotatinj^ in HponiuiuioiiH 
lijirdihood and riid(^ iiiji,}^iiili(t(>,iic;(^. 

It) civilized lil'c, vvlidH^ (lie: li;i|)[)iji(5HM, and indccid ;d- 
nio.sl, l,lio cxiMiciKM", of man d('|)(Ui(ls so niucli npon llio 
opinion oi' his i'lillow-nirn, Ik^ is (•onsta.nily acl,in<^ a, sl.nd- 
ied part. Tho bold and peculiar traitH ol* iiaiJV(» r.U.iv- 
actor aro roiincul away, or Hol'tcuuul down l)y tho hncliin^ 
inlliunicii of what is tcu-Jmul ^ood-hrcMMlin^ ; and h(^ j)ra(;- 
tis(!S so ina,ny pcJly (hiccptions, a,ii(l a,(rcc,ls so nia,ny }JJ<vn- 
(;i'ous siMiiiincnis, Tor i\\r, purposes of |)opnlaril,y, tha,t it 
is dilUc.nlt to distinguish hin rc^al from his artilicial c-har- 
uctor. Tho Tndiaji, on tln^ contrary, iVoo from th(! r(^- 
fitraints and r(^tin(vni(>,nts of ])olish(id lifo, and, in a, jncat 
dogr(H5, a solitaj'y a,nd indcixMidcnt heinj^, olx^ys the im- 
pulses of his inelinaJ-ion or tlie dictates of his judj^niient; 
and thus tho attrihid^es of his natnn^, Ixmu}^ i\\\o\y in- 
dulf^od, }j;row sinj^ly gniat and strikijig. Society is liiio a 
lawn, whoni ovory rouglinoss in smoothed, evory l)ra,rtd)lo 
eradicated, and when; the eye is delij^id/c^l hy th(^ smiling 
verdure of a velvet Hurfac(^ ; li(% liowciver, who would 
Btudy nature iji its wildness and varicity, must plung<^ 
into the forest, must ex|)lorci tho glen, must stem tho 
tori'ent, and dare the precipic(i. 

'I'lies<^ r(;lli'ctions arose, on ca,siia,Ily looking throngli a, 
VoliiUK! of eaaly coloniaJ history, whei'eiii ar(5 reconhul, 
with gr(!at hitteriuiss, tho oid,rages of the IndiaJis, ajid 
tluur wars with th(>, sottha'S of New Englan<l. It is pain- 
ful to p(ii-ceivo eveji from these partial nanatives, ii(^W 



408 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of 
the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved to 
hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and ex- 
terminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 
at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted 
from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of na- 
ture's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled 
in the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Mas- 
sachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distin- 
guished of a number of contejnporary Sachems who 
reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wam- 
panoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the 
first settlement of New England ; a band of native un- 
taught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of 
which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp 
in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory 
or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, 
and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they 
have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of 
history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twi- 
light of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called 
by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of 

* While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is in- 
formed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem 
on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 409 

the NeTv "World, from the religious persecutions of the 
Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and 
disheartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly 
perishing away through sickness and hardships ; sur- 
rounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; ex- 
posed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the 
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds were 
filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved 
them from sinking into despondency but the strong ex- 
citement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situa- 
tion they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of 
the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a 
great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of 
the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them 
from his territories, into which they had intruded, he 
seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friend- 
ship, and extended towards them the rites of primitive 
hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settle- 
ment of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of 
followers, entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to 
secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. What- 
ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the 
integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- 
peached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend 
of the white men ; suffering them to extend their posses- 
sions, ^nd to strengthen themselves in the land ; and be- 
traying no jealousy of their increasing power and pros- 



410 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

perity. Shortly before his death he came once more to 
New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose 
of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to 
his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the reli- 
gion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the 
missionaries ; and stipulated that no further attempt 
should be made to draw off his people from their ancient 
faith; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to 
any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. 
Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, 
Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 
English), to the residence of a principal settler, recom- 
mending mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreating 
that the same love and amity which had existed between 
the white men and himself might be continued afterwards 
with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow 
came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to 
experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of 
a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of 
his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy 
and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his in- 
dignation ; and he beheld with uneasiness their exter- 
minating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was 
doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of 
plotting with the Narragansets to rise against the Eng- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 411 

lisli and drive them from the land. It is impossible to 
say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or 
was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, however, 
by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, 
that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the 
rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and 
inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They 
despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and 
to bring him before their courts. He was traced to his 
woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, 
where he was reposing with a band of his followers, un- 
armed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of 
his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dig' 
nity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud 
savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He was 
permitted to return home, on condition of sending his 
son as a pledge for his reappearance ; but tlie blow he 
had received was fatal, and before he had reached his 
home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his 
lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with 
his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him 
an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was 
accused of having always cherished a secret and impla- 
cable hostility towards the whites. Such may very prob- 
ably, and very naturally, have been the case. He con- 
sidered them as originally but mere intruders into the 



412 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were 
extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw 
the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping from 
their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered 
and dependent. It may be said that the soil was origi- 
nally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know 
the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of 
colonization ? The Europeans always made thrifty bar- 
gains through their superior adroitness in traffic ; and 
they gained vast accessions of territory by easily pro- 
voked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice 
inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury 
may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are 
all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip to 
know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his 
countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they 
were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general 
hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment 
of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, re- 
newed the contract with the settlers, and resided peacea- 
bly for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by 
the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion 
of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first 
but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and sub- 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



PHILIP OF POKANOEET. 413 

stance ; and lie was at length cliarged witli attempting to 
instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, 
by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their 
oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign 
the proper credit due to these early accusations against 
the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and 
an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, 
that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. In- 
formers abounded where talebearing met with counte- 
nance and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed 
when its success was certain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is 
the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, 
whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial 
education which he had received among the settlers. 
He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three 
times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his 
principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's con- 
fidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his 
bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds 
of adversity were gathering round his patron, he aban- 
doned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in 
order to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor 
with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investiga- 
tion took place. Philip and several of his subjects sub- 
mitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against 
them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to 
retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was 



414 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a dangerous neiglibor; they had publicly evinced their 
distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility; 
according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in 
these cases, his destruction had become necessary to 
their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was 
shortly afterwards found dead, in a pond, having fallen a 
victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one 
of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philij3, were ap- 
prehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very 
questionable witness, were condemned and executed as 
murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious pun- 
ishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated 
the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at 
his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and 
lie determined to trust himself no longer in the power 
of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken- 
hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a 
further warning in the tragical story of Miantonirao, a 
great Sachem of the Narraganscts, who, after manfully 
facing his accusers before a tribunal of tlie colonists, 
exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and re- 
ceiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously de- 
spatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered 
his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that 
he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children 
to the Narragansets for safety ; and wherever he ap- 
peared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 



PniLIP OF POKANOKET, 415 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust 
and irritation, the least spark was suJBficient to set them 
in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, 
grew mischievous, and committed various petty depreda- 
tions. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on 
and killed by a settlor. This was the signal for open hos- 
tilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their 
comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the 
Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 
times we meet with many indications of the diseased state 
of the public mind. The gloom of .religious abstraction, 
and the wildness of their situation, among trackless for- 
ests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to 
superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations 
with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. 
They were much given also to a belief in omens. The 
troubles with Philip and liis Indians were preceded, we 
are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which fore- 
run great and public calamities. The perfect form of an 
Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which 
was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious ap- 
parition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in 
their neighborhood, "was heard the report of a great 
piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a con- 
siderable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still, sun- 

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



416 TEE SKETCn-BOOK. 

shiny morning, by the discharge of guns and muskets; 
bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of 
drums resounded in the air, seeming to j^ass away to the 
westward ; others fancied that they heard the galloping 
of horses over their heads ; and certain monstrous births, 
which took place about the time, filled the superstitious 
in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these 
portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural 
phenomena : to the northern lights which occur vividly 
in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; 
the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of 
the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; 
and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will 
sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the pro- 
found stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have 
startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been 
exaggerated by the love of the marvellous, and listened 
to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is 
fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of these 
superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of them 
by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly char- 
acteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men 
and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted 
with superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness 
of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of 
their antagonists ; on the part of the Indians it was 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 417 

waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and 
"who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, 
dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a 
worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror 
and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, how- 
ever justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the 
most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is re- 
Tiled as a murderer and a traitor; without considering 
that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the 
Lead of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family ; 
to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver 
his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, 
and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have 
been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere suc- 
cession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prow- 
ess of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced and pas- 
sionate narrations that have been given of it, we can 
arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous 
mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering 
and hardship, and an unconquerable resolution, that 
command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, h<e 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 



418 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

forests tliat skirted the settlements, and were almost im- 
pervious to anything but a wild beast, or an Indian. 
Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm 
accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 
thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and 
place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the 
villages. There were now and then indications of these 
imjDending ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists 
with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun 
would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man ; the cattle 
which had been wandering in the woods would some- 
times return home wounded ; or an Indian or two would 
be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and sud- 
denly disappearing ; as the lightning will sometimes be 
seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is 
brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by 
the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miracu- 
lously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, 
would be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again 
emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country 
desolate. Among his strongholds, were the great swamps 
or morasses, which extend in some parts of New Eng- 
land ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; per- 
plexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered 
and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by 
lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tan- 



PHILIP OF POKANOEET. 419 

gled mazes of tliese sliaggy wilds, rendered them almost 
impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could 
thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was 
Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The 
English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to yenture 
into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might 
perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking 
foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, 
and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving 
out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted them- 
selves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of the 
night, leaving the women and children behind ; and es- 
caped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war 
among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck 
country, and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exag- 
gerated his real terrors. He was an evil that w^alked in 
darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against 
which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip 
seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever 
part of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from 
the forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. 
Many superstitious notions also were circulated concern- 
ing him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be 
attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he 



420 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and in« 
cantations. This indeed was frequently the case with 
Indian chiefs ; either through their own credulity, or to 
act upon that of their followers : and the influence of the 
prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has 
been fully evidenced in recent instances of savage war- 
fare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Po- 
casset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His 
forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had 
lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of 
adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief 
Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was the son and 
heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already 
mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the per- 
fidious instigations of the settlers. " He was the heir," 
says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and in- 
solence, as well as of his malice towards the English;" — 
he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and 
the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had 
forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet 
he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms ; 
and gave them the most generous countenance and sup- 
port. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the 
English ; and it was determined to strike a signal blow 
that should involve both the Sachems in one common 
ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered together 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 421 

from Massacliusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
■was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of 
winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could 
be traversed with comparative facility, and would no 
longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the in- 
firm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong 
fortress ; where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the 
flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the In- 
dians impregnable, w^as situated upon a rising mound or 
kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a 
swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and 
skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in In- 
dian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of 
these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came 
upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and 
tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first 
attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot 
down in the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. 
The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodg- 
ment was efiected. The Indians were driven from one 
post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their 
veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody 



422 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

battle, Philip and Canoncliet, witli a handful of surviving 
■warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the 
thicket's of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the 
whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the 
women and the children perished in the flames. This 
last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. 
The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage 
and despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they be- 
held the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the 
agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. " The burn- 
ing of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the 
shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the 
vellinn: of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and af- 
fecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the sol- 
diers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they were 
in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, 
whether burning their enemies alive could be consist- 
ent with humanity, and the benevolent principles of the 
Gospel." * 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is wor- 
thy of particular mention : the last scene of his life is 
one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magna- 
nimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause 

* MS. of the Ecv. W. Ruggles. 



PHILIP OF POEANOEET. 423 

•wliich he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of 
peace, offered on condition of betraying Philip and his 
followers, and declared that " he would fight it out to the 
last man, rather than become a servant to the English." 
His home being destroyed ; his country harassed and 
laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was 
obliged to wander a\s^ay to the banks of the Connecticut; 
where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of 
western Indians, and laid waste several of tlie English 
settlements. 

Early in the sj^ring he departed on a hazardous expe- 
dition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Sea- 
conck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure 
seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This 
little band of adventurers had passed safely through the 
Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narragan- 
set, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, 
when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. — 
Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, 
to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English 
and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless 
terror past their chieftain, without stopping to inform 
him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who 
did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that 
the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw 



424: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

there was no clioice but immediate flight. He attempted 
to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon 
his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver- 
laced coat and belt of j)eag, by which his enemies knew 
him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of 
pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he after- 
wards confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned with- 
in him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of 
strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized 
by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, 
he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of 
body and boldness of heart. But on being made pris- 
oner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and 
from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his 
enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and 
prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the 
English who first came up with him, and who had not 
attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted war- 
rior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful coun- 
tenance, replied, "You are a child — you cannot under- 
stand matters of war — let your brother or your chief 
come — him will I answer." 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 425 

Tliongli repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, 
yet he rejected them with disdain, and refased to send 
any proposals of the kind to the great body of his sub- 
jects ; saying, that he knew none of them would comply. 
Being reproached with his breach of faith towards the 
whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wam- 
panoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail ; and his 
threat that he would burn the English alive in their 
houses; he disdained to justify himself, haughtily an- 
swering that others were as forward for the war as him- 
self, and " he desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and vmshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of 
the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an In- 
dian ; a being towards whom war had no courtesy, 
humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was 
condemned to die. The last words of him that are 
recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When 
sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed 
" that he liked it well, for he should die before his 
heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of 
himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, 
for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems 
of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death 
of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King 
Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head 



426 ^SE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of war, by stirring up the Moliawks to take arms ; but 
tbougli possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his en- 
lightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill 
began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some 
were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hun- 
ger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which 
they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; 
his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was car- 
ried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he 
was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to 
the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, 
"being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not 
prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made 
acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the 
captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his 
subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and being 
stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life 
should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own fol- 
lowers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing 
him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through 
treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects 
of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kins- 
woman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 427 

hands of tlie enemy. "Wetamoe was among them at tlie 
time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or 
starved by cold and hunger, she was found dead and 
naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not 
[at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, 
where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no 
protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was 
affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her 
corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly ven- 
geance ; the head was severed from the body and set 
upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the 
view of her captive subjects. They immediately recog- 
nized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were 
so afiected at this barbarous spectacle, that we are told 
they broke forth into the " most horrible and diabolical 
lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the 
treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and 
reduce him to despondency. It is said that "he never 
rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his de- 
signs." The spring of hope was broken — the ardor of 
enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and all 
was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor 
any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty 
band of followers, who still remained true to his desper- 
ate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the 



428 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of liis fa- 
thers. Here he lurked abcut, like a spectre, among the 
scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of 
home, of family and friend. There needs no better pic- 
ture of his destitute and piteous situation, than that fur- 
nished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is un- 
warily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the 
hapless warrior whom he reviles. "Philip," he says, 
"like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the 
English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles 
backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den 
upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his 
best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a jarison to 
keep him fast till the messengers of death came by 
divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 
sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture 
liim to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, 
brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquir- 
ing a savage sublimity from the wilduess and dreariness 
of his lurking -jjlace. Defeated, but not dismayed — 
crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to 
grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience 
a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitter- 
ness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfor- 
tune ; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of 
submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to 
death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of 



PHILIP OF POEANOEET, 429 

peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and 
iu revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body 
of white men and Indians were immediately despatched 
to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with 
fury and desj)air. Before he was aware of their ap- 
proach, they had begun to surround him. In a little 
while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at 
his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from 
his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but 
was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his 
own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- 
honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the 
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we 
may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty charac- 
ter sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect 
for his memory. "We find that, amidst all the harassing 
cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was 
alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal 
tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. 
The captivity of his " beloved wife and only son " are 
"oaentioned with exultation as causing him poignant mis- 
ery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly re- 
corded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the 
treachery and desertion of many of his followers, iu 
whose affections he had confided, is said to have deso- 
lated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further 



430 THE SKETCE-BOOK. 

comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil — - 
a prince true to liis subjects, and indignant of tlieir 
wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, 
patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had es- 
poused. Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of 
natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts 
of the forests or in tlie dismal and famished recesses of 
swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit 
to submission, and live dependent and despised in the 
ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic quali- 
ties and bold achievements that would have graced a 
civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of 
the poet and the historian ; he lived a wanderer and a 
fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely 
bark foundering amid darkness and tempest — without a 
pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record 
Lis struggle. 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aj^ed old pate, 
Of ail old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study lill'd full of learned old books. 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him liy his looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 




tIERE is no species of humor in wliicli tlie Eng- 
lish more excel, than that which consists in 
caricaturing and giving ludicrous appellations, 
or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically desig- 
nated, not merely individuals, but nations; and, in their 
fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even 
themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, 
a nation w^ould be apt to picture something grand, heroic, 
and imposing ; but it is characteristic of the peculiar hu- 
mor of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, 
comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their na- 
tional oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fel- 
low, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather 

431 



432 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken 
a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles 
in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful 
in their delineations, that there is scarcely a being in 
actual existence more absolutely present to the jpublic 
mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 
thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the 
nation ; and thus to give reality to what at first may have 
been painted in a great measure from the imagination. 
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually 
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 
wonderfully captivated with the heau ideal which they 
have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. 
Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism 
an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this I 
have especially noticed among those truly homebred and 
genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond 
the sound of Bowrbells. If one of these should be a 
little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent 
truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and al- 
ways speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an 
unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes, 
that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his pas- 
sion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he 
betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to for- 
eign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance — he 



JOHN BULL. 433 

is a plain John Bull, and lias no relisli for frippery and 
nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, 
and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under 
the plea of munificence — for John is always more gener- 
ous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict 
himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited 
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the 
nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each 
other ; and a stranger who wishes to study English pecu- 
liarities, may gather much valuable information from the 
innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the 
windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is 
one of those fertile humorists, that are continually 
throwing out new portraits, and presenting different 
aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he 
has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to 
give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright 
matter-of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about 
him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his 
nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He 
excels in humor more than in wit ; is jolly rather than 
gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be 
moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad 
laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for 
28 



434 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow 
Lim to have his humor, and to talk about himself ; and 
he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, 
however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propen- 
sity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded 
personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family, 
but for all the country round, and is most generously dis- 
posed to be everybody's champion. He is continually 
volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' affairs, 
and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any mat-" 
ter of consequence without asking his advice ; though he 
seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind withouf 
finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and 
then railing bitterl}^ at their ingratitude. He un] luckily 
took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence, 
and having accomplished himself in the use of his liinb?i 
and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxinrj 
and cudgel-j)lay, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most 
distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to 
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider whethei 
his interest or honor does not require that he should 
meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his rela- 
tions of pride and policy so completely over the whole 
country, that no event can take place, without infringing 
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in 
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in 



JOHX BULL. 435 

every direction, he is like some clioleric, bottle-bellied 
old spider, who has woven his web over a whole cham- 
ber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without 
startling his rej)ose, and causing him to sally forth 
wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fel- 
low at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the 
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, how- 
ever, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he 
always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it 
grumbling even when victorious ; and though no one 
figlits with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, 
yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the recon- 
ciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking 
of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all 
that tliey have been quarrelling about. It is not, there- 
fore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him 
out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and you 
may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He 
is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest 
storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the suc- 
ceeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of 
pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely 
about at boxing matches, horse races, cock figlits, and 
carrying a high head among " gentlemen of the fancy : " 
but immediately after one of these fi.ts of extravagance, 



436 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lie will be taken witli violent qualms of economy ; stop 
short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of 
being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such 
moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, with- 
out violent altercation. He is in fact the most punctual 
and discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his 
coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance ; 
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every 
guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bounti- 
ful provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His econo- 
my is of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise 
how he may afi'ord to be extravagant ; for he will be- 
grudge himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that 
he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and 
treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : 
not so much from any great outward parade, as from the 
great consumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast 
number of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singu- 
lar disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a 
most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his ser- 
vants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little 
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat 
His house-servants are well joaid, and pampered, and 
have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and 



JOHN BULL. 437 

prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house- 
dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark 
at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, 
gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather- 
beaten apj)earance. It has been built upon no regular 
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in vari- 
ous tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of 
Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone 
and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of 
that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, 
and dusky chambers ; and though these have been par- 
tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many 
places where you must still grope in the dark. Addi- 
tions have been made to the original edifice from time to 
time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers and 
battlements have been erected during wars and tumults : 
wings built in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and 
offices, run up according to tlie whim or convenience of 
different generations, until it has become one of the most 
spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire 
wing is taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, 
that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, 
in spite of having been altered and simplified at various 
periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its 
walls within are stored with the monuments of John's 
ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions 
and well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are 



438 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

inclined to clmrcli services, may doze comfortably in the 
discliarge of tlieir duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; 
but he is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, 
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels 
have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his 
neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong 
papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a 
most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well- 
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in 
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use 
in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their 
prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, 
and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample 
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of 
yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor-house 
is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of 
rooms apparently deserted and time-worn; and towers 
and turrets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high 



jonif BULL. 439 

winds tliere is danger of theii tumbling about tbe ears of 
the liouseliold. 

John hag frequently been advised to have the old edi- 
fice thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the use- 
less parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with 
their materials ; but the old gentleman always grows 
testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excel- 
lent house — that it is tight and weather proof, and not to 
be shaken by tempests — that it has stood for several 
hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble 
down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family- 
is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be 
comfortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size 
and irregular construction, these result from its being 
the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wis- 
dom of- every generation — that an old family, like his, 
requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families 
may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; but an old 
English family should inhabit an old English manor- 
house. If you point out any part of the building as 
superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength 
or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; 
and swears that the parts are so built into each other, 
that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having the 
whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dis- 
position to protect and patronize. He thinks it indis- 
pensable to the dignity of an ancient and honorable fam- 



440 TBE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ily, to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten 
up by dependents ; and so, partly from pride, and partly 
from kind-heartedness, lie makes it a rule always to 
give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated ser- 
vants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old 
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style 
which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great 
hospital of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not 
a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or cor- 
ner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and re- 
tired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen loll- 
ing about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under 
its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its 
doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these 
supernumeraries and their families ; for they are amaz- 
ingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave 
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided fol\ A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or 
loop-hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger- 
on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, and 
makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down 
the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant of the 
family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart never 
can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten 



JOHN BULL. 441 

his beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded 
with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his j)ark, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-dov/n chargers are turned loose to 
graze undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a 
worthy example of grateful recollection, which if some of 
his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their dis- 
credit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point 
out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their 
good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with 
some little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and 
hardy exploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for 
family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical 
extent. . His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies ; yet 
he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they 
have infested the place time out of mind, and been 
regular poachers upon every generation of the family. 
He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from 
the great trees that surround the house, lest it should 
molest the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they 
are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swal- 
lows have nearly choked up every chimney with their 
nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; crows 
flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather- 
cock ; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes 



442 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such 
a reverence for every thing that has been long in the 
family, that he will not hear even of abuses being re- 
formed, because they are good old family abuses. 

All those whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides him- 
self on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to 
maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have 
caused him great perplexity in meeting his engage- 
ments. This, too, has been increased by the alterca- 
tions and heart-burnings which are continually taking 
place in his family. His children have been brought 
up to different callings, and are of different ways of 
thinking; and as they have always been allowed to 
speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise 
the privilege most clamorously in the present posture 
of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the 
race, and are clear that the old establishment should 
be kej)t up in all its state, whatever may be the cost; 
others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat 
the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to 
listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice has 
been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct 
of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fel- 
low, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to 
frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, and 



JOHN BULL. 443 

a complete oracle among tlie poorest of his father's 
tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers 
mention reform or retrenchment, tlian up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out 
for an overturn. When his tongue is once going noth- 
ing can stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors the 
old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules his 
tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the old 
servants out of doors ; give the broken-down horses to 
the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a 
field-preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family 
mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain 
one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails 
at every social entertainment and family festivity, and 
skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an 
equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly 
complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scru- 
ples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern 
convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
which he preaches about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has 
become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the 
mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a 
brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter 
is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, hav- 
ing grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent 
scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that 



444 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer 
who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, 
on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentle- 
man, right or wrong ; likes nothing so much as a racket- 
ing, roystering life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out 
sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares 
to array himself against -paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, 
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. 
People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, when- 
ever his affairs are mentioned. They all " hope that 
matters are not so bad with him as represented; but 
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extrava- 
gance, things must be badly managed. They understand 
lie is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually 
dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open- 
handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too 
fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of this 
fondness for hunting, racing, revelling and prize-fighting. 
In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has 
been in the family a long time ; "but, for all that, they 
have known many finer estates come to the hammer." 

"What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecu- 
niary embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on 
the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round cor- 
poration, and smug rosy face, which he used to present, 
he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a 
frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat. 



JOHN BULL. 445 

wliicli bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days 
when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about 
him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are 
all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado 
to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once 
sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- 
cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and 
bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump 
upon the ground ; looking every one sturdily in the face, 
auui trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song ; he 
now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with 
his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his 
arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches 
pockets,. which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet 
for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant 
as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or 
concern, he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the 
richest and stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying 
out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate ; 
and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, 
longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in 
all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation 
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd 
humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted 
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as 



4A6 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

he thinks liimself, but lie is at least twice as good as his 
neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own ; 
all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults 
smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extra- 
vagance savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness of 
his courage ; his credulity of his open faith ; his vanity 
of his pride ; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They 
are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. 
He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and 
solid within ; whose bark abounds with excrescences in 
proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber ; 
and whose branches make a fearful groaning and mur- 
muring in the least storm, from their very magnitude 
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appear- 
ance of his old family mansion that is extremely poeti- 
cal and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered 
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it 
meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and 
opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good archi- 
tects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere 
levellers, who, when they had once got to work with their 
mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps 
buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, 
that John's present troubles may teach him more pru- 
dence in future. That he may cease to distress his mind 
about other people's affairs ; that he may give up the 
fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neighbors, 



JOHN BULL. 447 

and tlie peace and happiness of the world, by dint of the 
cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home ; gradually 
get his house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate ac- 
cording to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks 
proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can ; 
renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long 
enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a 
merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither. 

To starve or wither 
Thj' soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 




N tlie course of an excursion through one of the 
remote counties of England, I had struck into 
one of those cross-roads that lead through 
the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one 
afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beauti- 
fully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive 
simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in the 
villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I deter- 
mined to pass the night there, and, having taken an early 
dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance 
from the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curi- 
osity, its old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so 

that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of 

448 



THE PRIDE OF TEE VILLAGE. 449 

gray "wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered 
through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. 
The early part of the "day had been dark and showery, 
but in the afternoon it had cleared up ; and though sul- 
len clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad- 
tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all 
nature with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the 
parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and 
sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 

I liad seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and 
w^as musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted 
hour, on past scenes and early friends — on those who 
were distant and those who were dead — and indulging in 
that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it some- 
thing sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, 
the stroke of a bell fi'om the neighboring tower fell on 
my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, and, in- 
stead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was 
some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the 
knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the vil- 
lage green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and 
reappeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it 
passed the .place where I was sitting. The pall was sup- 
ported by young girls, dressed in white ; and another, 
about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a 
29 



450 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cliaplet of wliite flowers ; a token that tlie deceased was a 
young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed 
by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the 
better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 
his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and 
deeply-furrowed face, showed the struggle that was pass- 
ing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre isle, and the chaplet of white flow- 
ers, with a j)air of white gloves, were hung over the seat 
which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the fu- 
neral service ; for who is so fortunate as never to have 
followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when 
performed over the remains of innocence and beauty, 
thus laid low in the bloom of existence — what can be 
more affecting? At that simple, but most solemn consign- 
ment of the body to the grave — "Earth to earth — ashes 
to ashes — dust to dust ! " — the tears of the youthful com- 
panions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father 
still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort 
himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed 
which die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of 
her child as a flower of the field cut down and withered 
in the midst of its sweetness ; she was like Rachel, 
"mourning over her children, and would not be com- 
forted." 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 451 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of 
the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often 
been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the 
village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, 
but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only 
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity 
of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pas- 
tor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good man 
watched over her education with paternal care ; it was 
limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to 
move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to 
her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tender- 
ness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption 
from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural 
grace and delicacy of character, that accorded with the 
fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some 
tender plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid 
the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowl- 
edged by her companions, but without envy ; for it was 
surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning 
kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place. 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which 



452 TUE SKETCHBOOK 

still retain pome vestiges of old English customs. It liad 
its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up 
some faint observance of tlie once popular rites of May, 
These, indeed, had been jDromoted by its present pastor, 
who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple 
Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting 
joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his 
auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the 
centre of the village green ; on May-day it was decorated 
with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the 
May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the 
sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The pic- 
turesque situation of the village, and the fancifiilness of 
its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual 
visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young 
officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in 
the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native 
taste that pervaded this village pageant ; but, above all, 
with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was 
the village favorite, who was crowned with flowers, and 
blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of 
girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural 
habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance J 
he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid 
his court to her in that unthinking way in which young 
officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love : but there are modes of 



TEE PRIDE OF TEE VILLAGE. 453 

making it more eloquent tlian language, and wliicli con- 
vey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam 
of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses 
which emanate from every word, and look, and action — 
these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be 
felt and understood, but never described. Can we won- 
der that they should readily win a heart, young, guile- 
less, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost un- 
consciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the growing 
i:)assion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or 
what were to be its conse({uences. She, indeed, looked 
not to the future. When present, his looks and words 
occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she thought 
but of what had passed at their recent interview. She 
Avould wander with him through the green lanes and 
rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new 
beauties in nature ; he talked in the language of polite 
and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witch- 
cries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between 
the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gal- 
lant figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of 
his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye ; 
but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her 
attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked 
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in 
his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate 
and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 



454 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc- 
tions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was 
the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from 
those of the rustic society to wliicli she had been accus- 
tomed, that elevated him in her oj)inion. She would lis- 
ten to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute 
delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm; 
or if ever she. ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, 
it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and 
blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion 
was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had 
begun the connection in levity ; for he had often heard 
his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and 
thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his repu- 
tation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful 
fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently 
cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life : it 
caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle ; and 
before he was aware of the nature of his situation, he be- 
came really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles 
which so incessantly occur in these heedless attach- 
ments. His rank in life — the prejudices of titled con- 
nections — his dependence upon a proud and unyielding 
father — all forbade him to think of matrimony: — but 
when he looked down upon this innocent being, so 
tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 455 

ners, a blamelessness in lier life, and a beseeching mod- 
esty in her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. 
In vain did he try to fortify himself by a thousand heart- 
less examples of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow of 
generous sentiment with that cold derisive levity with 
which he had heard them talk of female virtue : when- 
ever he came into her presence, she was still surrounded 
by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity 
in whose hallowed sjihere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair 
to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He 
remained for a short time in a state of the most painful 
irresolution ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, 
until the day for marching was at hand ; when he gave 
her the intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she 
looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and 
wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew 
her to his bosom, and kissed the tears from her soft 
cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are mo- 
ments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow 
the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous ; 
and the sight of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms, 
the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of 
losing her for ever, all conspired to overwhelm his better 
feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave 
her home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 



456 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind 
was his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to 
comprehend his meaning ; and why she should leave her 
native village, and the humble roof of her parents. When 
at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure 
mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — she 
did not break forth into reproach — she said not a word — 
but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a 
look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, clasp- 
ing her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her 
father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repent- 
ant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of 
the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been 
diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new 
pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his self- 
reproach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir 
of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, 
and even the din of battles, his thoughts would some- 
times steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village 
simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath along the 
silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little 
village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the 
destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 457 

Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melan- 
choly. She had beheld from her window the march of 
the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover 
borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and 
trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last 
aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about 
his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed 
away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all 
in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her 
after story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. 
She avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks 
she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, 
like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, 
and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her 
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening 
sitting in the porch of the village church ; and the milk- 
maids, returning from the fields, would now and then 
overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn 
walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church ; 
and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, 
yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which mel= 
ancholy diffuses round the form, they would make wa;^ 
for her, as for something spiritual, and, looking after hea, 
would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to tii«!i 
tomb, but looked forward to it as place of rest. The sil- 



458 ' THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Ter cord tliat had bound lier to existence was loosed, and 
there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If 
ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment against 
her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of an- 
gry passions ; and in a moment of saddened tenderness, 
she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the 
simplest language, but touching from its very simplicity. 
She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal 
from him that his conduct was the cause. She even de- 
picted the sufferings which she had experienced ; but 
concluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, 
until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no 
longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the 
window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her en- 
joyment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. 
Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one 
the malady that was preying on her heart. She never 
even mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her 
head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her 
poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading 
blossom of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it 
might again revive to freshness, and that the bright un- 
earthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might 
be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice 
was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 459 

with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which 
her own hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the 
Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of 
the joys of heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort 
and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on 
the distant village church ; the bell had tolled for the 
evening service ; the last villager was lagging into the 
porch ; and every thing had sunk into that hallowed 
stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were 
gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sor- 
row, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given 
to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled 
in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faith- 
less lover ? — or were her thoughts wandering to that dis- 
tant church-yard, into whose bosom she might soon be 
gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman 
galloped to the cottage — he dismounted before the win- 
dow — the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk 
back in her chair : it was her repentant lover ! He 
rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his 
bosom ; but her wasted form — her deathlike counte- 
nance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation, — smote 
him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony at her 
feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted to ex- 
tend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, 
but no word was articulated — she looked down upon him 



460 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

with a smile of unutterable tenderness, — and closed her 
eyes for ever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this vil- 
lage story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious 
have little novelty to recommend them. In the present 
rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narra- 
tive, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they 
interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in con- 
nection with the affecting ceremony which I had just 
witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than 
many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have 
passed through the place since, and visited the church 
again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was 
a wintry evening ; the trees were stripi3ed of their foli- 
age ; the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and 
the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Ever- 
greens, however, had been planted about the grave of the 
village favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the 
turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There 
hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day 
of the funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but 
care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil 
their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where 
art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of 
the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke more 
touchingly to my heart, than this simple but delicate 
memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER. 

This d-Ay dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

^T is said that many an unlucky urchin is in- 
duced to run away from his family, and betake 
himself to a seafaring life, from reading the his- 
tory of Bobinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like 
manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given 
to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in 
hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the seduc- 
tive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying 
his "Complete Angler" several years since, in company 
with a knot of friends in America, and moreover that we 
were all completely bitten with the angling mania. It 
was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was 
auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the 
Terge of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into 

461 




462 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tlie country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from 
reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness 
of his equipments : being attired cap-a-pie for the enter- 
prise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed 
with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and 
leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a 
patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other inconve- 
niences, only to be found in the true angler's armory. 
Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of 
La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for 
the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been 
invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivu- 
lets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among 
our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill 
the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesqvie. Some- 
times it would leap down rocky shelves, making small 
cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balan- 
cing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes 
from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. 
Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the 
matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, 
after this termagant career, would steal forth into open 
day with the most placid demure face imaginable ; as I 



THE ANGLER. 463 

have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after fill- 
ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling 
upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among 
the mountains : where the quiet was only interrupted by 
the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle 
among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe 
from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of 
sport that required either patience or adroitness, and had 
not angled above half an hour before I had completely 
"satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the 
truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is some- 
thing like poetiy — a man must be born to it. I hooked 
myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; 
lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt 
in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading 
old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of 
honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched 
me, and not the passion for angling. My companions, 
however, were more persevering in their delusion. I 
have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along 
the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or 
was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bit- 
tern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his 
rarely-invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them sus- 



464 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

piciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep 
black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise 
letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on 
which he is sunning himself; and the panic-struck frog 
plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading 
an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with 
scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable appa- 
ratus, a lubberly country urchin came down from the 
hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few 
yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, 
a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm — 
and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, whole- 
some, hungry" repast, which we made under a beech- 
tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out 
of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of 
the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk- 
maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a 
bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may ap- 
pear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from utter- 
ing these recollections, which are passing like a strain of 
music over my mind, and have been called up by an 
agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 



THE ANGLER. 465 

hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was at- 
tracted to a group seated on tlie margin. On approach- 
ing, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two 
rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a 
wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully 
patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and de- 
cently maintained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had been 
worn into an habitual smile; his iron-gray locks hung 
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored 
air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed to 
take the world as it went. One of his companions was 
a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant 
poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gen- 
tleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood iu the darkest 
night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a 
lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. 
The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout 
which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what 
insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on 
the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen 
with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
"brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. 
They are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peace- 
able spirit ; " and my esteem for them has been increased 
since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the An- 
gle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their 
inoffensive fraternity, *' Take good hede/' sayeth this 
30 



466 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

honest little tretyse, " tliat in going about your disportes 
ye open no man's gates but that ye sliet them again. 
Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no 
covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money 
only, but princij)ally for your solace, and to cause the 
helth of your body and specyally of your soule." * 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite 
drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gal- 
lant manner in which he stumped from one part of the 
brook to another; waving his rod in the air, to keep 
the line from dragging on the ground, or catching among 
the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would 
throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim- 
ming it lightly along a little rapid; sometimes casting it 
into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or 
overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to 
lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his 
two disciples; showing them the manner in which they 
should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them 
along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more in- 
dustrious and devout employment than it is generally considered, — "For 
■when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre 
greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And 
that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable 
prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, 
as ydelnes, which is principall cause to induce man to many other vices, 
as it is right well known." 



THE ANGLER. 467 

my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his 
scholar. The country round was of that pastoral kind 
which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the 
great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of 
Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to 
swell uj) from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, 
too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sun- 
shiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that 
sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost 
the whole day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, 
and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, 
having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I 
fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly 
in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had 
been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had 
afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life, until 
he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by 
a cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was 
the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever expe- 
rienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with 
some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue 



468 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of nearly forty pounds. On this lie retired to his native 
village, where he lived quietly and independently ; and 
devoted the remainder of his life to the "noble art of 
angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 
he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 
prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buf- 
feted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in 
itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as 
roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that 
is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he Spoke of 
every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look 
only on the good side of things : and, above all, he was 
almost the only man I had ever met with who had been 
an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty 
and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own 
door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was 
receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir 
apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, and 
of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted 
by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. In 
taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had 
probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, 
and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling (if we could 
forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tor- 
tures inflicted on worms and insects) that tends to pro- 
duce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenit}' of mind. 



THE ANQLEB. 469 

As the Englisli are methodical, even in their recreations, 
and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been re- 
duced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed 
it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and 
highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every rough- 
ness has been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which 
wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this 
beautiful country ; leading one through a diversity of 
small home scenery ; sometimes winding through orna- 
mented grounds ; sometimes brimming along through 
rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with 
sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight of 
villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously away 
into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually 
bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now and then 
agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant 
whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some 
fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming tran- 
siently about its glassy surface. " When I would beget 
content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in 
the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, 
I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and 
there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those 
very many other little living creatures that are not only 
created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of 
the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 



470 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit : 

Let rae live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
And on the world and my Creator think: 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue. 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his 
place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood 
of the village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curi- 
osity to seek him out. I found him living in a small cot- 
tage, containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity in 
its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of 
the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, 
with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, 
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the 
cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was 

* J. Davors. 



THE ANGLER. 471 

a ship for a ■weather-cock. The interior was fitted up in 
a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and conve- 
nience having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man- 
of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, 
in the daytime, was lashed up so as to take but little 
room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model of 
a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a 
table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal mov- 
ables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such 
as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom 
Bowline, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 
which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished 
place. The mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells ; 
over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of 
most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements 
for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks 
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, 
containing a work on angling, much worn, a Bible 
covered with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, 
a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and edu- 
cated himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and 
which uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse 
brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establish- 
ment reminded me of that of the renowned Eobinson 
Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing being 
" stowed away " with the regularity of a ship of war ; 



472 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and lie informed me that lie "scoured the deck every 
morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smok- 
ing his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was 
purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describ- 
ing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in 
the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and 
gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness 
as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particu- 
larly animated in relating the manner in which he had 
taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his 
skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to 
mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented 
old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after be- 
ing tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug 
and quiet harbor in the evening of his days ! His happi- 
ness, however, sprung from within himself, and was inde- 
pendent of external circumstances ; for he had that inex- 
haustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of 
Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of 
thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in 
the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was 
a universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the 
tap-room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of 
strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was 



TEE ANGLER. 473 

mucli noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigli- 
borliood ; had taught several of them the art of angling ; 
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole 
tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being princi- 
pally passed about the neighboring streams, when the 
weather and season were favorable ; and at other times he 
employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle 
for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and 
flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, 
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He 
had made it his particular request that when he died he 
should be buried in a green S]Dot, which he could see 
from his seat in church, and which he had marked out 
ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far 
from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for 
the fishes — it was the spot, where his father and mother 
had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing 
weary ; but I could not refrain from drawing the picture 
of this worthy "brother of the angle;" who has'made me 
more than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I 
shall never be adroit in the practice. of his art : and I will 
conclude this rambling sketch in the words of honest 
Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's mas- 
ter upon my reader, " and upon all that are true lovers of 
virtue ; and dare trust in his providence ; and be quiet ; 
and go a angling." 




THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

POUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICK- 
EP.BOCKEK. 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

N tlie bosom of one of those spacious coves 
which indent the eastern shore of the Hud- 
son, at that broad expansion of the river de- 
nominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan 
Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, 
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they 
crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, 
which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is 
more generally and properly known by the name of 
Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in 
former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their hus- 
bands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, 
but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise 

474 



THE. LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 475 

and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 
two miles, there is a little valley, or rather laj) of land, 
among high hills, which is one of the quietest j)laces in 
the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with 
just murmur enough to lull one to repose ; and the occa- 
sional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is 
almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uni- 
form tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 
bath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverber- 
ated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a 
retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its 
distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a 
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this 
little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has 
long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and 
its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys 
throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, 
dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place 
was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the 



476 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

early days of tlie settlement ; others, tliat an old Indian 
chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow- 
wows there before the country was discovered by Master 
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues 
under the sway of some witching power, that holds a 
spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to 
walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds 
of marvellous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; 
and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and 
voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds 
with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight supersti- 
tions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the 
valley than in any other part of the country, and the 
nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it 
the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of 
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 
ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried 
away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during 
the revolutionary war ; and who is ever and anon seen by 
the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as 
if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined 
to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, 
and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great dis- 
tance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of 
those parts, who have been careful in collecting and col- 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 477 

lating tlie floating facts concerning this spectre, allege 
that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the 
church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of bat- 
tle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing 
speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, 
like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, 
and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before 
daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 
tion, which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
in that region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at 
all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 

(I 

valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 
resides there for a time. However wide awake they may 
have been before they entered that sleepy region, they 
are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence 
of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream 
dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
and there embosomed in the great State of New-York, 
that population, manners, and customs, remain fixed ; 
while the great torrent of migration and improvement, 
which is making such incessant changes in other parts 
of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 



478 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

They are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream ; where we may see the straw and 
bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in 
their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the 
passing current. Though many years have elapsed since 
I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I ques- 
tion whether I should not still find the same trees and 
the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 
Crane ; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," 
in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the 
children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecti- 
cut ; a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly 
its legions of frontier woodsmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inaj^plicable 
to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with 
narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dan- 
gled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have 
served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely 
liung together. His head was small, and flat at top, 
iwith huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe 
nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon 
his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To 
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy 
day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 479 

one miglit have mistaken liim for the genius of famine 
descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped 
from a cornfiekl. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, 
and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It 
was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against 
the window shutters ; so that, though a thief miglit get 
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment 
in getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an 
eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with 
a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree 
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur 
of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be 
heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee- 
hive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; 
or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as 
he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of 
knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, 
and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod 
and spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly 
were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in 



480 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he adminis^ 
tered justice with discrimination rather than severity; 
taking the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying 
it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, 
that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satis- 
fied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called "doing his duty by their 
parents ; " and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that " he would remember it, and thank 
him for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hoiirs were over, he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday 
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives 
for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. In- 
deed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, 
and would have been scarcely sufl&cient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help 
out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom 
in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the 
farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he 
lived successively a week at a time ; thus going the 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 481 

rounds of the neigliborhood, with all his worldly effects 
tied up iu a cotton handkerchief. 

That all tliis might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both 
useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasion- 
ally in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to make 
hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove 
the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. 
Ho laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute 
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the 
children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion 
bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, 
he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle 
with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to 
take his station in front of the church gallery, Avith a 
baud of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he com- 
pletely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain 
it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be heard half 
' 31 



482 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a mile oflf, quite to tlie opposite side of the mill-pond, on 
a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately 
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little make-shifts in that ingenious way which is 
commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of 
headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being 
considered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of 
vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough 
country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to 
the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion 
some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the 
addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in 
the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would fig- 
ure among them in the church-yard, between services on 
Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their 
amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or saun- 
tering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of 
the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country 
bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of trav- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 483 

elling gazette, carrying tlie whole budget of local gossip 
from house to house ; so that his appearance was always 
greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed 
by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had 
read several books quite through, and was a perfect mas- 
ter of Cotton Mather's history of New England Witch- 
craft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently 
believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 
and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordi- 
nary ; and both had been increased by his residence in 
this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or mon- 
strous for his capacious swallow. It was often his de- 
light, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the 
little brook that whimpered by his school -house, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gath- 
ering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere 
mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by 
swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse 
where he happened to be quartered, every sound of na- 
ture, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagina- 
tion : the moan of the whip-poor-will "' from the hill-side ; 
the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; 
the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rus- 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It re- 
ceives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



484 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. 
The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the 
darkest -places, now and then startled him, as one of un- 
common brightness would stream across his path ; and if, 
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready 
to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck 
with a witch's token. His only resource on such occa- 
sions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, 
was to sing psalm tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy 
Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were 
often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in 
linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the dis- 
tant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting 
and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their mar- 
vellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, 
and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted 
houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or 
galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes 
called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and porten- 
tous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the 
earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them 
wofuUy with speculations upon comets and shooting 
stars ; and with the alarming fact that the world did 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 485 

absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time 
topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a j)leasure in all this, while snugly 
cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all 
of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, 
of course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- 
wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path 
amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — 
"With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of 
light streaming across the waste fields from some distant 
window ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub 
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset 
his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust 
beneath his feet ; and dread to look ov^r his shoulder, 
lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close 
behind him!— and how often was he thrown into complete 
dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, 
in the idea that it was the Galloj)ing Hessian on one of 
his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though 
he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more 
than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely 
perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these 
evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in 
despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not 



486 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to 
mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of 
witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one even- 
ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, 
was Katriua Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting 
and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast 
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mix- 
ture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set 
off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow 
gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought 
over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden 
time ; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to dis- 
play the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 
the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting 
a morsel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially 
after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old 
Baltus Yau Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, 
sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boun- 
daries of his own farm ; but within those every thing was 
snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with 
his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEP T HOLLOW. 487 

tLe hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he 
lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the 
Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A 
great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the 
foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and 
sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and 
then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neigh- 
boring brook, that bubbled along among alders and 
dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, 
that might have served for a church ; every window and 
crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treas- 
ures of the farm ; the flail was busily resounding within 
it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some 
with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some 
with their heads under their wings, or buried in their 
bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the 
roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the re- 
pose and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the 
air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in 
an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regi- 
ments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, 
and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered 
housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before 
the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a 



488 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his 
burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness 
of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his 
feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family 
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 
his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every 
roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, 
and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put 
to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet 
of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; 
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In 
the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of 
bacon, and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he be- 
held daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, 
and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and 
even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 
back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving 
that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask 
while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
com, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 489 

yearned after tlie damsel who was to inlierit tliese do- 
mains, and liis imagination expanded with the idea, how 
they might be readily turned into cash, and the money 
invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle 
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the 
top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with 
pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, 
with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable 
of being closed up in bad weather. Under this Avere 
hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 
built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spin- 
ning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed 
the various uses to which this important porch might be 
devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod en- 
tered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion 
and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplen- 
dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be 



490 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

spun ; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried ap- 
ples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, 
mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left 
ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the 
claw-footed chairs, and dark, mahogany tables, shone like 
mirrors ; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and 
tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; 
mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantel- 
piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs were sus- 
pended above it : a great ostrich egg was hung from the 
centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly 
left open, disj)layed immense treasures of old silver and 
well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these re- 
gions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and 
his only study was how to gain the affections of the peer- 
less daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and had 
to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, 
and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady 
of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily 
as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christ- 
mas pie ; and then the lady gave him her hand as a mat- 
ter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 491 

way to tlie heart of a country coquette, beset with a lahy- 
rinth of whims and caprices, which were for ever present- 
ing new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to en- 
counter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and 
blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every 
portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye 
upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according 
to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of 
the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 
jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
of limb, he had received the nickname of Beom Bones, by 
which he was universally known. He was famed for 
great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dex- 
terous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all 
races and cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which 
bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in 
all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his 
decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a 
frolic ; but had more mischief than ill-will in his compo- 
sition ; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was 
a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had 



492 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

three or four boon companions, who regarded him as 
their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the 
country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for 
miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a 
fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when 
the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known 
crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of 
hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Some- 
times his crew would be heard dashing along past the 
farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a 
troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out 
of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry- 
scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there 
goes Brom Bones and his gang! " The neighbors looked 
upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good 
will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, oc- 
curred in the -vicinity, always shook their heads, and 
warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallan- 
tries, and though his amorous toyings were something 
like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it 
was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his 
hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a 
lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was 
seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a 
sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 493 

"sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, 
and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the com- 
petition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He 
had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perse- 
verance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a 
supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he 
never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest 
pressure, yet, the moment it was away — ^jerk ! he was as 
erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his charac- 
ter of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the 
farmhouse; not that he had any thing to apprehend 
from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is 
so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his 
daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reason- 
able man and an excellent father, let her have her way in 
every thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to 
do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poul- 
try ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are 
foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 



494 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame 
bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at 
one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his 
evening j)ipe at the other, watching the achievements of 
a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each 
hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinna- 
cle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry 
on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring 
under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of rid- 
dle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vul- 
nerable point, or door of access ; while others have a 
thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand 
different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the 
former, but a still greater proof of generalship to main- 
tain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for 
his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some 
renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 
was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and 
from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the 
interests of the former evidently declined ; his horse was 
no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and 
a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the j)re- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 495 

Brom, who Lad a degree of rough chivalrj in his na- 
ture, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, 
and have settled their pretensions to the ladj, according 
to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, 
the knights-errant of yore — by single combat ; but Icha- 
bod was too conscious of the superior might of his ad- 
versary to enter the lists against him : he had overheard 
a boast of Bones, that he would " double the schoolmas- 
ter up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ; " 
and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There 
was something extremely provoking in this obstinately 
pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw 
upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and 
to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Icha- 
bod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, 
and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto 
peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school, by 
stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school-house 
at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and 
window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy : so 
that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches 
in the country held their meetings there. But what was 
still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turn- 
ing him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had 
a scoundrel docc whom he taucrht to whine in the most 
ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's 
to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 



496 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

producing any material effect on the relative situation of 
the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, 
Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool 
whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little 
literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that 
sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed 
on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to 
evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, de- 
tected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half- 
munched apples, pof)guns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Appar- 
ently there had been some appalling act of justice re- 
cently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with 
one eye kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing 
stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was 
suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in 
tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment 
of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the 
back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he man- 
aged with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering 
up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to 
attend a merry-making or " quilting frolic," to be held 
that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having de- 
livered his message with that air of importance, and 
effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display 
on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 497 

and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the 
importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
school-room. The scholars were hurried through their 
lessons, without stopping at trifles ; those who were nim- 
ble skijDped over half with impunity, and those who were 
tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, 
to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. 
Books were flung aside without being put away on the 
shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown 
down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour 
before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the greea, in 
joy at their early emancijjation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extru half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in 
the school-house. That he might make his appeu-rance 
before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he bor- 
rowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domicil- 
iated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van 
Eil^per, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a 
knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I 
should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some ac- 
count of the looks and equipments of my hero and his 
steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken -down* 
plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but 



498 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

liis viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, witli a ewe 
neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail 
were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost 
its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had 
the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have 
had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the 
name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a fa- 
vorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who 
was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some 
of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken- 
down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in 
him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
Tip to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck 
out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapj)ing of 
a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of 
his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of 
Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate 
of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an appa- 
rition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 499 

dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and 
yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been 
nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, 
and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel 
might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory 
nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals 
from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capri- 
cious from the very profusion and variety around them. 
There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of 
stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and 
the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the 
golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his 
broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar 
bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its 
little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue-jay, that 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white un- 
der-clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bob- 
bing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms 
with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged 
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all 
sides he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in 
oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into 



500 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

baskets and barrels for the market ; others heaped up in 
rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great 
fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from 
their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes 
and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying be- 
neath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the 
sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of 
pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld 
them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty 
slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or 
treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina 
Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of 
a range of hills whicli look out upon some of the good- 
liest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually 
wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide 
bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, ex- 
cepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved 
and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. 
A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath 
of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden 
tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and 
from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices 
that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater 
depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 501 

A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the 
mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the 
still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in 
the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas- 
tle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged 
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats 
and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- 
cent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, 
in close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, home- 
spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay 
calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where 
a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave 
symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square- 
skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 
their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the pur- 
pose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a 
potent nourisher and strengtheuer of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Dare- 
devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, 
and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in 
fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all 
kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of 



502 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his neck, for lie held a tractable well-broken horse as 
unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, Avith their luxurious 
display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a gen- 
uine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of 
autumn. Such heaped-up jjlatters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to expe- 
rienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty 
dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and 
crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger 
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. 
And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pump- 
kin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef ; and 
moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and 
peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled 
shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk 
and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as 
I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot send- 
ing up its clouds of 'vapor from the midst — Heaven bless 
the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this ban- 
iquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my 
story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a 
hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 503 

dilated in proportion as liis skin was filled with good 
cheer ; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene 
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old 
school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Rijjper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call 
him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions 
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of 
the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to " fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant 
orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- 
tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three 
strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a 
motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and 
stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to 
start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 



504 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

upon Tiis vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him 
was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have 
thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the 
dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the ad- 
miration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all 
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, 
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, roll- 
ing their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of 
ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins 
be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling gra- 
ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom 
Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brood- 
ing by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabpd was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over for- 
mer times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speak- 
ing, was one of those highly-favored places which abound 
with chronicle and great men. The British and Ameri- 
can line had run near it during the war ; it had, there- 
fore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with 
refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
teller to dress uj) his tale with a little becoming fiction, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 505 

and, in tlie indistinctness of his recollection, to make 
liimself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frig- 
ate with an old iron nine-j)ounder from a mud breast- 
work, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 
And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in 
the battle of White-plains, being an excellent master of 
defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- 
much that he absolutely felt it wJiiz round the blade, and 
glance off at the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready 
at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. 
There were several more that had been equally great in 
the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had 
a considerable hand in bringing the war to a ha.ppy ter- 
mination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and su- 
perstitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled 
retreats ; but are trampled under foot by the shifting 
throng that forms the population of most of our country 
places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts 
in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time 
to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their 
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away 
from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at 



506 THE BKETCE-BOOK. 

niglit to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance 
left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so 
seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established 
Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing 
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies in- 
fecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow peo- 
ple were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were 
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dis- 
mal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning 
cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 
where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which 
stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made 
also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen 
at Eaven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 
nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. 
The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the 
favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horse- 
man, who had been heard several times of late, patrol- 
ling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse 
nightly among the graves in the church-yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty 
elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 507 

sliine modestly fortli, like Christian purity beaming 
tlirougli tlie shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 
scends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody 
dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part 
of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 
thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and 
the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging 
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime ; 
but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was 
one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; and 
the place where he was most frequently encountered. 
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical dis- 
believer in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning 
from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to 
get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the 
bridge ; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skel- 
eton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang 
away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 
vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed 



508 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

that, on returning one niglit from the neighboring vil- 
lage of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken bj this mid- 
night trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for 
a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Dare- 
devil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they 
came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and van- 
ished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ich- 
abod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from 
his invaluable author. Cotton Mather, and added many 
marvellous events that had taken place in his native 
State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had 
seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their families in their wagons, and 
were heard for some time rattling along the hollow 
roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels 
mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and 
their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of 
hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding faint- 
er and fainter until they gradually died away — and the 
late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. 
Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of 
country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully 
convinced that he was now on the high road to success. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 509 

Wliat passed at tliis interview I will not pretend to say, 
for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear 
me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, 
after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chop-fallen. — Oh these women ! these women ! Could that 
girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — 
Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere 
sham to secure her conquest of his rival? — Heaven only 
knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth 
with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, 
rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the 
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which 
he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, 
and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed 
most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains 
of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 
below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of 
a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of 
the watch dog from the op]30site shore of the Hudson; 



610 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of 
his distance from tliis faithful companion of man. Now 
and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acciden- 
tally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 
house away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but 
occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps 
the guttural twang of a bull - frog, from a neighboring 
marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning sud- 
denly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollec- 
tion. The night grew darker and darker; the stars 
seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds oc- 
casionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so 
lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the 
very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories 
had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enor- 
mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the 
other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of 
landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It 
was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was 
universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. 
The common people regarded it with a mixture of re- 
spect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 511 

fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from tlie tales 
of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concern- 
ing it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was 
but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. 
As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw 
something white, hanging in the midst of the tree — he 
paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking more nar- 
rowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. 
Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing 
of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed 
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but 
new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- 
wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A 
few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over 
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 
entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted 
thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over 
it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at 
this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- 
tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines 
were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. 
This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, 



512 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and fearful are tlie feelings of the schoolboy who has to 
pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to 
thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and at- 
tempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of 
starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral 
movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Icha- 
bod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the 
reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the con- 
trary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, 
but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road 
into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The school- 
master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the 
starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, 
snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the 
bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider 
sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy 
tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear 
of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed 
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
ready to spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and 
fly was now too late ; and besides, what chance was there 
of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 513 

ride upon the wings of tlie wind? Summoning up, tliere- 
fore, a sliow of courage, he demanded in stammering 
accents — " Wlio are you ? " He received no reply. He 
repeated liis demand in a still more agitated voice. Still 
there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides 
of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, 
broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 
motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once 
in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse 
of powerful frame. He made no oflfer of molestation or 
sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging 
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now 
got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones v/ith the Galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
33 



514 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon 
fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, 
whicli brought tlie figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a 
cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he 
was headless ! — but his horror was still more increased, 
on observing that the head, which should have rested on 
his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of 
the saddle : his terror rose to desperation ; he rained a 
shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by 
a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but 
the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments flut- 
tered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away 
over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite 
turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This 
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for 
about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the 
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 515 

He seized it by tlie pommel, and endeavored to hold it 
firm, but in vain ; and liad just time to save himself by- 
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Rip- 
per's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sun- 
day saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the 
goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider 
that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; 
sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
back-bone, with a violence that he verily feared would 
cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The waver- 
ing reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook 
told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of 
the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 
recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly com- 
petitor had disappeared. "If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he 
heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him ; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. An- 
other convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered over the resound- 
ing planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and now Icha- 
bod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should van- 
ish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. 



516 THE SKETCHBOOK. 

Just tlien lie saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in 
the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod en- 
deavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It 
encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he 
was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the 
black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirl- 
wind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 
ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, 
but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house, and strolled idl}^ about the banks of the brook ; 
but no school-master. Hans Van Hipper now began to 
feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and 
his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after dili- 
gent investigation they came upon his traces. In one 
part of the road leading to the church was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs 
deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, 
were traced to the bridgo, beyond which, on the bank of 
a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and 
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and 
close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Hipper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 
tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 517 

shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two 
of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy smalL 
clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of 
dogs' ears ; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books 
and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the 
commiinity, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witch- 
craft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and 
fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van 
Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; 
who from that time forward determined to send his chil- 
dren no more to school ; observing, that he never kneAv 
any good come of this same reading and writing. What- 
ever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they 
had diligently considered them all, and compared them 
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their 
heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been 



518 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

carried off by tlie galloping Hessian. As he was a bach- 
elor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled Ms head any 
more about him. The school was removed to a differ- 
ent quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned 
in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; 
that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Kipper, and partly m mortifica- 
tion at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
country ; had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, 
electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, 
was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter 
than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Icha- 
bod was spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is 
a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 519 

the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than 
ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the 
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as 
to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. 
The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortu- 
nate pedagogue ; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward 
of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a 
distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the 
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCEIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I 
heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Manhat- 
toes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious 
burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fel- 
low, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one 
whom I strongly suspected of being poor, — he made such efforts to be 
entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter 
and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who 
had been asleep a greater part of the time. There was, however, one 
tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained 
a grave and rather severe face throughout: now and then folding his 
arms, inclining his liead, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning 
a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never 
laugh, but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the law on their 
side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and 
silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, 
sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage 
motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of 
the story, and what it went to prove ? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a 
refreshment after his toUs, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer 
with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the 
table, observed, that the story was intended most logically to prove: — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleas- 
ures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it: 

530 



POSTSCRIPT. 521 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to 
have rough riding of it. 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch 
heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this ex- 
planation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism; 
while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of 
a triumphant leer. At length, he observed, that all this was very well, 
but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were one 
or two points on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as tc that matter, I don't bC'* 
lieve one-half of it myself." 

D. K. 




L'ENYOY* 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And speciallj' let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

CuAUCEii's Belle Dame sans Merck. 

N concluding a second volume of tlie Sketch- 
Book, the Author cannot but express his deep 
sense of the indulgence with which his first has 
been received, and of the liberal disposition that has 
been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. 
Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, 
he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured 
race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some 
one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, 
taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total 
condemnation of his work ; but then he has been con- 
soled by observing, that what one has particularly cen- 
sured, another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the 
encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds 
his work, uj)on the whole, commended far beyond ita 
deserts. 

* Closing the second volume of the London edition. 

533 



L' ENVOY. 523 

He is aware tliat lie runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
this kind favor by not following the counsel that has 
been liberally bestowed upon him ; for where abundance 
of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's 
own fault if he should go astray. He can only say, in his 
vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to 
govern himself in his second volume by the opinions 
passed upon his first; but he was soon brought to a 
stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to shun the 
pathetic; a third assured him that he was tolerable at 
description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knaVik 
at turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a 
pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he ima- 
gined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to folloAv all their 
counsels would, in fact, be to stand stiU. He remained 
for a time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the 
thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that 
his work being miscellaneous, and written for different 
humors, it could not be expected that any one would be 
pleased with the whole ; but that if it should contain 
something to suit each reader, his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table 
with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an ele- 



524 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

gant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a 
devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate tho 
ancient flavor of venison and wildfowl ; and a fourth, of 
truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt 
on those knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the 
ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn ; and 
yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish 
go away from the table without being tasted and relished 
by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in. the same heterogeneous way with his 
first ; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here 
and there something to please him, to rest assured that 
it was written expressly for intelligent readers like him- 
self ; but entreating him, should he find any thing to dis- 
like, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the 
author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numer- 
ous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts 
of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 
difiidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds 
himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a 
public which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to 
regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. 
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet 
finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his 



L' ENVOY. 525 

powers, and deprlvin*^ liim of that ease and confidence 
which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go 
on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier foot- 
ing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, 
surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his 
own temerity. 



APPENDIX. 

NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the dorain- 
icn of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Greg- 
ory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths 
exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for tha 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among 
these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by 
learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo- 
Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter 
of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full ex- 
ercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the iniiuenee of the sex in matters of relig- 
ious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with 
forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect tho 
conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open air ; 
being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. 
They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his wife; 
the conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of his loyal 
subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being 
made archbishop of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over 
all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king of the 
East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of which 

527 



528 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Mellitus, one of the Roman monlvs who had come over with Augustine, 
was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river 
side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in 
fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great prepa- 
rations were made for the consecration of the church, which was to be 
dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the apjjointed day, Mellitus, 
the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the 
ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who 
informed Mm that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. 
The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, 
that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter 
appeared to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church 
himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, 
which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in 
sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds of 
fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered 
the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous draught 
of fishes ; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop, and 
to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the necessity of 
consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of 
the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax can- 
dles, crosses, holy water ; oil sprinlded in various places, and various 
other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, 
they were completely removed on the fisherman's producing the identical 
fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To re- 
sist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good 
bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been 
consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he reverently abstained from pro- 
ceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he 



APPENDIX. 529 

meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another iu 
its place in 1045. In this his remams were deposited in a magnificent 
shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruc- 
tion, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present appearanca 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of the 
cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, 
giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward the 
Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of 
six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain 
of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had officiated in 
the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among his brother 
choristers and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of 
King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, which was indis- 
tinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None 
of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, 
until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the coffin 
by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, apparently very 
strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the coro- 
nation of James II. , the coffin was found to be broken, a hole appearing 
in the lid, probably made, through accident, by tlie workmen. No one 
ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal dust, 
until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the knowledge 
of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith . repaired to the abbey in com- 
pany with two friends, of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspect- 
ing the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and 
found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and 
24 



530 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

four inches bro.itl, just in front of the left breast. Thrasting in his hand, 
aiul groping among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a 
crucifix, richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four 
inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were equally 
siir2)rised with himself. 

"At the time," says he, "when I took the cross and chain out of the 
cofTin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and 
firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list 
of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the 
temples. There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-coloi'ed flow- 
ered silk, that looked indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put thereto 
showed it was well nigh perished. There were all his bones, and much 
dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than 
the scull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its 
coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him 
through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain 
back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his dis- 
covery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that the 
" lioly treasure " might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother 
chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours after- 
wards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These he after- 
wards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subsequently had 
the old coffin inclosed in a now one of great strength : "each plank being 
two inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where it 
now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might 
,be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description of 
it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British 
writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces 
of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays of the 
sun, forever set on its splendor * * * * Only two of the spiral pil- 



APPENDIX. 531 

lars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and covered with 
dust. The mosaic is picked away in every [)art witliin roach ; only (he 
lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the rich murble 
remain." — Malcolm, Lond, rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE 
SKETCH. 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his second 
wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, young- 
est sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the 
brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a 
wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookcs do well testify : 
she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her 
lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he camo 
home, never parted from him in his solitary retiremenL 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the afte2» 
noon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir 
partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral and the tran- 
septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of tho 
choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats and canopies ; 
the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and 
screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there 
upon a sepulchral decoration, or monumental eflBgy. The swelling notes 
of the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white 
dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey and 
along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim 
sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



532 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard, 
the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant view of 
a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare 
thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural monu- 
ment of one of the Pultneys. 



THE EKBli 



LR6 0'?9 



